The End of the Beginning
by Mariner
Summary: London, 1981. Rupert Giles and Ethan Rayne thought they understood magic -- until the night they saw a glowing green skull in the sky above a quiet London street. COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

The End of the Beginning by Rusalka 

Chapter 1 **June 12, 1981 **

Putting on a proper display of righteous indignation can be very difficult when one is too drunk to walk straight. Rupert Giles made this important discovery as he staggered around the living room of an ugly Chiswick flat at two in the morning, trying to rub out the chalk marks on the floor without falling over. Around him, people were shouting in confusion or annoyance. Someone was tugging at Giles' sleeve. Someone – Ethan, probably – was laughing. Giles paid them no mind. He braced one hand against the corner of a bookcase and scuffed his foot across a particularly stubborn rune, turning it into a smudge. He wished he hadn't worn such smooth-soled shoes.

"Aw, come on, Ripper!" Ethan hauled himself out of the beanbag chair where he'd been sprawled, and took a couple of steps toward Giles. He, too, was unsteady on his feet, but his eyes were sharp and amused. "Don't be such a spoilsport. We were only trying to provide you with a little fun on your birthday."

"Thish ish-- fuck!" Giles pushed away from the bookcase, gathered the gin-soaked remains of his dignity around him, and forced himself to stand straight and enunciate. "This is not my idea of fun," he announced, and marched toward the door.

His exit was somewhat spoiled by the doorknob, which wobbled in his hand, refusing to turn. Giles grabbed it with both hands, wrestled it into submission, and staggered outside. It was raining, and his umbrella was back in the flat somewhere, but he wasn't about to go back for it. Ethan would laugh himself silly. Besides, the rain was helping to clear his head.

There was a lamppost at the end of the driveway. Giles slumped against it and raised his face to the sky, not even minding the drops that spattered on his glasses. He felt angry, and stupid, and angry with himself for being stupid. He should've known better. Should've just hung up when Ethan called the day before to wish him a happy birthday. But there he'd been, thirty years old, with no social life and no plans to celebrate, and no matter how much his better judgment screamed at him, part of him had been truly touched that Ethan had remembered.

They hadn't seen each other in over eight years. The disaster with Eyghon had been the final straw in an already shaky relationship. Giles had gone back to Oxford and Ethan had gone… wherever. Giles hadn't expected to ever hear from him again. The call had taken him by surprise and thrown him completely off-balance.

So he'd agreed to a pub crawl, and after the pubs had closed, he'd agreed to go to Chiswick, where some friends of Ethan's were having a party. It had been fun at first – Ethan's friends were enthusiastic and welcoming, and very free with their alcohol. Giles had barely noticed when Ethan started drawing on the floor, and one of the women began lighting candles. Then he'd stood to pour himself another gin and, in a random moment of lucidity, recognized the pattern on the floor.

"Ethan, you bloody bastard." Giles sighed and ran one hand through his hair, brushing wet strands back from his forehead. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"Talking to yourself, Ripper?" Ethan was standing right beside him, though Giles hadn't heard him come up. "Stop it and come inside. You're getting soaked."

"Sod off." Giles shoved his hands into his pockets and began to walk in a random direction. He had no idea where he was or how to get home -- they had arrived in a taxi, and Giles hadn't been paying attention when Ethan gave the address to the driver. Surely there had to be a street sign somewhere...

"Ripper!" Ethan had caught up with him again. He was _grinning_, damn him, as if there was anything even remotely amusing about the situation. Giles wanted to punch him. "I really don't see--"

"Stop calling me that!" Giles hissed. Ethan's grin grew wider.

"Very well, _Rupert_. I still don't see what you're getting so worked up about. It was only a harmless little--"

"There's no such thing as a harmless demon summoning!" Giles shouted into Ethan's insufferably cheerful face. "God, don't you ever learn? Don't you remember? Randall is _dead_!"

"Yes, yes, and we must all torture ourselves about it for the rest of our natural lives." Ethan rolled his eyes. "Enough of the breast-beating, Rupert. I wasn't going to summon Eyghon. This isn't even a real demon, just a minor underworld spirit. Good for parlor tricks and not much else."

"Parlor tricks." Giles made no attempt to keep the disgust from his voice. He felt tired and old, and uncomfortably damp, and in no mood to try and break through Ethan's eternal insouciance. "Right. Whatever you say, Ethan. I'm going home."

Ethan pouted, an expression Giles clearly remembered finding charming less than a decade ago. "You used to be a lot more fun than this. Whatever happened to your sense of adventure? I mean, look at you…" He pinched a fold of Giles' sleeve between thumb and forefinger, and curled his lip in exaggerated distaste. "_Tweed_?"

"What does that have to do anything?" Giles pulled his arm away, trying not to feel hurt. He was rather fond of his Harris tweed jacket with the little leather patches on the elbows. He'd bought it at Harrods when he got the job at the British Museum -- his Watcher training had reached the independent research stage -- and it was by far the most expensive piece of clothing he owned. He wore it with khakis and a moss-green turtleneck, and thought he was striking the perfect balance between casual and academic. 

"I'm just trying to dress my age, that's all." He eyed Ethan's artfully frayed black jeans and chain-laden leather jacket with disapproval. "You should try it yourself sometime. You look like an over-the-hill rent boy."

"Been seeing a lot of those lately, have you?" Ethan wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "You really need a party, Rupert. Come--"

"Giles. Call me Giles."

"If I do, will you come back inside?"

"I--"

"No more summonings, I promise."

It _was_ awfully wet out… Giles was about to voice his agreement when the sky caught fire.

Giles' first thought was that someone was setting off fireworks nearby. But there was none of the noise that normally accompanies fireworks. The burst of emerald stars floated upwards in eerie silence, trailing faint plumes of smoke, bathing the trees and rooftops below in flickering green light. As Giles watched, the stars began to move, arranging themselves into the shape of an immense skull. It was hard to judge size, with nothing around to give the thing scale, but Giles thought it had to be at least twenty feet across. A snake slithered from the skull's grinning mouth like a grotesque tongue. When the clouds behind it moved, the snake seemed to writhe.

"What the hell..." Giles' head was clearing rapidly as adrenalin chased out the alcohol fumes. He shot a glance at Ethan, who stepped back and spread his arms.

"Don't look at me, I didn't do it."

For once, Giles believed him.

"We'd better have a look." 

He was half a block away before he realized that Ethan wasn't following. Giles stopped, turned and glared, and got an equally pointed glare in return.

"I can see fine from here," Ethan said. "No need to come any closer."

"Whatever happened to your sense of adventure?" Giles came back, hooked three fingers through the loop of chain that dangled off Ethan's left shoulder and pulled, hard. "Come along now, there's a good boy."

Ethan came along, protesting all the while about the rain, the party they were leaving behind, and the likelihood of them being killed unpleasantly by whatever entity had produced the mark in the sky. He shut up only when Giles pointed out, rather snappishly, that their chances of survival would increase dramatically if the entity in question couldn't hear them coming. 

It was easy enough to spot the source of the apparition once they got close enough. The small Georgian terrace houses that lined the street were all quite peaceful looking and quite identical – except for the third house from the corner, where the windows were shattered and the front door hung askew on one hinge. Strangely, no alarms had gone off, and the adjoining buildings were dark and silent, as if none of the neighbors had noticed anything amiss. Giles peered through one of the broken windows but saw no movement inside.

"Right, then, we've had a look," Ethan murmured in a voice barely above a whisper. "Can we go now?"

"I want to make sure everyone inside is all right." Giles stood to the side of the door and carefully nudged it open with his foot. When a full minute passed and nothing leaped out to attack him, he went in.

He found the light switch by feel and flipped it, but no lights went on. Giles swore under his breath and looked back over his shoulder at Ethan, who was standing just outside the doorway with the air of someone who had no intention of moving. 

"I don't suppose you have a torch on you?"

"Yes, I always take one along when I drag an old mate out for a birthday pub crawl." Ethan gave a deep, long-suffering sigh, hesitated, then dug a small crystal sphere from a pocket. "Don't say I never help," he announced, and threw the sphere to the floor. "Ergo lucis!"

The crystal shattered, releasing a globe of pale, steady light that rose from the floor to hover just below the ceiling. Giles examined it curiously.

"Helios sphere?"

"Yes, and now you owe me a new one." Ethan leaned against the door frame and folded his arms across his chest. "Hurry up, will you? I'd like to get out of here."

The parlor was empty. So was the living room. Giles climbed the stairs, Ethan's mage light bobbing along in front of him. As he reached the top step, he became aware of a thick, acrid smell in the air – blood and vomit and other things he didn't want to think about, all horribly out of place in a quiet West London home. Giles stopped, one foot still on the stairs and one on the landing, and gripped the banister until his fingers hurt. There was a half-open door just ahead of him; it seemed to be the source of the stench. Giles stared at it, unmoving. Having come this far, he found he didn't want to know what was on the other side.

The steps behind him creaked, and he turned with a start to find Ethan climbing the stairs.

"I thought you were going to stay outside?"

Ethan shrugged. "Well, nothing's jumped out and eaten you yet, so I decided it was safe. What's that sme--"

There was a faint _pop_ below them, like a very small balloon bursting near the bottom of the stairs. One moment there was nothing there but the empty hallway, then a pair of figures stepped out of the shadows, silhouetted against the window. Giles had just enough time to register an impression of long, flowing cloaks, or perhaps clerical robes, before one of the figures raised its right arm.

"Stupefy!" a voice called out. There was a brilliant flash of light, and then nothing at all.


	2. Chapter 2

The End of the Beginning By Mariner 

Chapter 2 

Consciousness returned in another bright flash, accompanied by a small explosion of pain in Giles' skull. Giles groaned, tried to raise his hands to his temples, and discovered that he couldn't move. This was enough to snap him from a groggy daze to full wakefulness. He raised his head, wincing as the movement set off another series of explosions, and looked up.

He was sitting in a hard, straight-backed armchair in the center of a small, square room. Heavy black chains bound his arms and legs to the chair. The walls and ceiling were rough gray stone, and the floor was unfinished wood marked with a number of brown stains Giles instantly decided not to think about. There were no decorations, no windows and -- more to the point -- no Ethan. Torches in iron sconces provided uneven light and a rather unpleasant smoky smell. All of this was alarming enough, but not half as alarming as the man who stood looming between Giles and the door.

At first glance, Giles was reminded of an illustration of a golem he'd seen in a 13th-Century grimoire in his father's collection. The man's face looked as if it had been sculpted, rather inexpertly, from clay and then damaged during the firing. Only the eyes, glittering black under a wild mane of shoulder-length gray hair, looked as if they belonged to a human, though not any human Giles would care to meet in a dark alley. 

"Awake, are you?" The man's voice was deep and harsh. He wore a long, dark-red garment, somewhat like an early medieval robe, with a gold sunburst embroidered at each shoulder. "Ready to explain yourself?"

Giles mustered all the dignity he could manage under the circumstances and met the stranger's glare with what he hoped was a steady and challenging gaze. "You have rendered me unconscious, kidnapped me, and chained me up in a dungeon. I don't believe I'm the one who should be explaining himself. Who are you? Where's my friend?"

"Don't play games with me, Death Eater!" The man took a step forward, baring his teeth in an angry grimace. His boots sounded very loud on the floorboards. "Thought you could fool us, did you, disguising yourselves as Muggles? We're smarter than that."

There was a lengthy pause while Giles tried to translate that statement into comprehensible English. "I don't suppose," he said finally, "that it would do any good for me to say I don't know what you're talking about?"

The man's expression shaded from anger to disgust. With a slow, controlled movement, he reached with his right hand into his left sleeve and produced a slender length of polished dark wood, which he tapped in a deliberate rhythm against his palm. The gesture was clearly meant to be menacing, and probably would've been if Giles had any idea what he was supposedly being menaced with. Instead, he flashed on a vivid mental image of his first-year Archeology professor at Oxford, who had performed the exact same hand-tapping gesture with his pointer during slide shows. Giles bit his lip. Laughter, he suspected, would be a terrible mistake under the circumstances.

The man stared for a few seconds longer, then began to walk in a slow, wide circle around Giles' chair. Giles stared straight ahead, even after the man passed from his field of vision. Footsteps thumped steadily behind him, then stopped. Something cool and hard pressed against the back of Giles' neck. It took him a moment to connect the sensation with the stick his captor had been holding earlier. It felt a lot sharper than it looked.

"We've caught you red-handed this time," the man hissed. "The bodies weren't even cold yet. Like using the Unforgivables on children, do you? Maybe I should give you a taste of what it feels like on the receiving end. Something to remember me by in Azkaban."

"I assure you, this is all a mistake." Giles kept his voice low and even. "My friend and I had gone into the house to see if anyone inside was hurt. We didn't see any bodies." He remembered the smell at the top of the stairs and shuddered. "Whatever happened in that house, it was over by the time we got there."

The man behind him growled softly, and Giles braced himself for… he wasn't exactly sure for what. A blow? A knife in the back? An Unforgivable, whatever that might be? Before he had a chance find out, the door creaked open.

"Terrorizing the suspect again, Moody?" said a mild voice. "There will be paperwork if he dies of fright."

The new arrival was a very young man, barely out of his teens by the look of him, with untidy black hair and pale gray eyes that crinkled amiably behind horn-rimmed spectacles. He wore the same dark red garment as his companion, but with a single silver sunburst on the left shoulder.

Giles heard a mildly annoyed grunt behind him, and the pressure against his neck disappeared. A moment later the first man -- Moody, presumably -- came into view again.

"Potter. Took you long enough." Moody folded his arms across his chest and glowered. It was quite an intimidating glower, but Potter seemed unaffected by it. "What did you find out?"

"It all checks out." Potter reached into a pocket and took out an ordinary brown leather wallet, which he held out to Moody.

"Hey," Giles said indignantly, "that's mine!"

Both men ignored him. Moody continued to glower, while Potter opened Giles' wallet and began to cheerfully catalogue the contents.

"Muggle driving license." He removed the folded green paper from its plastic sleeve, held it up for inspection, and put it back again. "Muggle library card. One Muggle credit card, twenty-six pounds and seventy-three pence in Muggle money, two Muggle photographs of a nice silver-haired lady, and…" He paused dramatically before fishing out a small square packet and waving it in front of Moody's nose. "One Muggle contraceptive device. I'm shocked." Potter smirked and quirked an eyebrow at Giles. "What would the nice silver-haired lady say?"

"She'd say, 'Please unchain my son and give him back his wallet,'" Giles said through clenched teeth. Now that the threat of immediate assault appeared to have passed, he was starting to feel angry. For all the pseudo-medieval trappings, the scenario was starting to look disturbingly familiar. He had seen it before, not only in the American detective dramas that his non-tweed-wearing friends occasionally forced him to watch, but also during that one, horrid night when an all-too-real London police inspector had questioned him about Randall's disappearance. He had no idea who these men were, or who had gone and appointed them magic police, but he was rapidly running out of patience with them.

"I'd be a lot more willing to help you," he said, "if you told me what's going on. Who are you people? Is Ethan--is my friend all right?"

"He's fine." Potter sighed and made a half-hearted effort to smooth down his hair. "Moody, can we unchain the gentleman, please?"

"No." Moody's forbidding expression remained unaffected by condoms, driving licenses, or pictures of Giles' mother. "Not until we get to the bottom of this. How many times do I have to tell you, boy--"

"Constant vigilance, yes, I know." Potter sighed again. "But can we, at least, be comfortable?" He reached into his pocket again and pulled out a wooden wand that looked remarkably similar to Moody's, only newer. Potter held it out in front of him. "Formasella!" he said, and a sturdy wooden chair appeared in front of him out of thin air.

Giles squeezed his eyes shut for a couple of seconds. When he opened them again, the chair was still there, and Potter was sitting in it, staring pointedly at Moody. Moody stared back, then shrugged and unfolded his arms.

"Very well," he grumbled, conjured his own chair from nowhere, and sat.

"That's… quite impressive," Giles said weakly. He knew of several spells that could conjure large objects out of nothing, but they all required lengthy incantations and a fair amount of advance preparation. More to the point, they expended a large amount of magical energy -- enough so that anyone with an ounce of sensitivity could feel if such a spell was cast nearby. Yet Potter and Moody had conjured twice in quick succession, practically under Giles' nose, and he hadn't felt a thing. "Would you mind my asking how you did that?"

"Magic," Moody said curtly. "But you knew that, didn't you?"

"Don't mind him," said Potter. "Look, maybe we should start at the beginning. Mr. Giles -- that is your name, isn't it? Rupert Giles?" He waited for Giles to nod before going on. "I'm James Potter. This is my partner, Alastor Moody. We're Aurors, and you have no idea what that is, do you?"

"Absolutely none," Giles said emphatically. Potter beamed.

"See? He's a Muggle."

"He _says_ he's a Muggle." Moody scowled. "But that light they had in the house was no Muggle device." He rose from the chair and loomed over Giles again. "Did you create that light?"

Giles hesitated, wondering if they had interrogated Ethan yet, and what he might've told them. "Yes," he said finally.

Moody continued to loom. "How?"

"Magic."

Apparently, it was the wrong answer. Potter winced and hid his face behind one hand, while Moody somehow managed to look angry and smug at the same time. "So you admit you're a wizard?"

"A wizard?" Giles blinked. "Well, it's not the word I'd normally use, but I have studied magic, yes."

Moody's eyes narrowed. "What word _would_ you normally use, then?"

Giles shrugged. "What do you want, a formal title? I'm afraid I don't have one. I'm a scholar, really. History and Ancient Languages. Magic is just... a sideline."

"A sideline," Potter repeated in a dazed voice. He looked as if he couldn't quite grasp the concept behind the word. 

"Where did you go to school?" Moody demanded.

It was _not_ the follow-up question Giles had been expecting. "Westminster, why?"

There was a long, strained silence. Potter and Moody looked at each other, then at Giles, then at each other again. 

"Let's talk outside," Moody muttered finally, and marched out of the room. Potter followed, pausing only to give Giles a quick apologetic smile before shutting the door behind him.

They didn't go far; Giles could hear them holding an animated discussion on the other side of the door, though the voices were too muffled for him to follow the conversation. The word "impossible" seemed to figure in it a great deal, along with the ever-puzzling "Muggle" and "Death Eater." Neither man sounded very happy.

After about five minutes, the argument died down and the door opened again. Potter and Moody came back in and resumed their seats. Potter looked excited, Moody grim and suspicious.

"All right," Moody said. "We're ready to listen. What were you and your friends doing in that house?"

Giles took a deep breath. "We had just left a party a few blocks away. We saw that... that _thing_ in the sky, the skull with the snake. I wanted to investigate, and Ethan came along. We had just enough time to get up the stairs before you two showed up."

Moody scratched his scarred chin. "Most Mu--most people would've either run away or called the police."

Giles shook his head. "The apparition was clearly magical in nature. The police would've been of no use. And I was afraid that something dangerous might've broken loose: a destructive spell gone out of bounds, or even a demon manifestation. I couldn't just leave it."

"A demon?" Moody frowned.

"Ancient Muggle superstition," Potter said promptly. "Most of their cultures attributed magical power to external sources, such as gods, spirits, or evil superna--"

"I know what a demon is," Moody snapped. "I don't need you reciting your lessons at me."

Potter shifted in his chair. "Sorry, Sir."

"Never mind." Moody aimed his glare at Giles again. "You say you perform magic, yet you believe in demons?"

Giles stared back. "You say you perform magic, yet you _don't_?"

Moody did not dignify this with an answer. "That light spell of yours -- describe how you did it."

"Uhm…" Giles gathered his thoughts and forced himself to remember everything he'd ever learned about the creation and use of Helios spheres. It was, he recalled, quite a simple spell, so basic that he hadn't cast it in years, and not even Ethan had ever managed to wreak any havoc with it. It would do no harm to tell.

He described the ritual for purifying the crystal, the meditation technique, and the symbolic sacrifice designed to persuade Helios to imbue the sphere with a tiny spark of power.

"It's not a very powerful spell," he admitted, "but it's useful because the effects will vary depending on what incantation you use when you break the sphere. You can produce light, heat, noise, minor illusions, a small guide light that will always point to true north, or…" he trailed off, frowning. "I'm afraid I don't recall all the possibilities."

"We get the idea," Potter said. He sounded a little breathless. "My God, Alastor, if this is true... we might have an entirely new--"

"Not here," Moody said quickly. His face had gone totally expressionless, which Giles found more worrying than all the previous displays of temper. "Come outside again."

"Will someone please tell me what's going on?" Giles said plaintively. All he got in response was the sound of the door slamming.

They were gone much longer this time. There was no clock in the room, and Giles couldn't see his watch from where he sat, but it felt as if hours passed while he sat there, unable to move, with nothing to look at but the wall. His back and shoulders began to hurt, and his knees stiffened. Once or twice, he thought he heard footsteps and voices outside the door, but no one responded to his shouts.

When the door finally did open, the men who entered weren't Moody and Potter, but a pair of poker-faced strangers, a man and a woman in plain gray clothing. They, too, carried wooden wands. The man unlocked Giles' chains with a tap and a muttered word, helped him out of the chair, and cuffed his hands behind his back. The woman stood a few paces away and kept her wand aimed at Giles the whole time. Giles kept his head down and made no sudden moves. True, he had yet to see one of the wands used as a weapon, but if they could produce furniture out of nothing, they could no doubt produce something much nastier.

They ushered him out of the room and down a series of identical gray stone corridors, then into another room. This one had a fireplace, a rug, and six chairs arranged around a large mahogany table. The fireplace was lit, the chairs had cushions on the seats, and the table held a water jug and some glasses on a tray. It was almost cozy. Giles' escorts uncuffed his hands and marched out, leaving him alone. Giles peered into the water jug, decided that it would be pointless for anyone to try to poison him at this late stage, and poured himself a glass. He had just settled comfortably into one of the chairs when Ethan was brought in.

"Giles! I see you survived the Inquisition, too. Hey, careful with those, I bruise easily." The last remark was directed to the man who was removing his handcuffs. Ethan sprawled in the nearest chair and made a dramatic production of massaging his wrists. He waited until he and Giles were alone before he spoke again. "Do you have any idea who these people are? They seem to think we killed somebody in that house. I *knew* we shouldn't have gone in there. This is all your fault, you know?"

"Must be a nice change for you," Giles muttered, "having somebody else to blame."

Ethan looked as if had a number of snide things to say in response, but before he could voice any of them, the door opened again and Moody and Potter came in. They were accompanied by a third man, whose appearance made Giles stare and provided Ethan with a handy new target for his wit.

"Good Lord!" Ethan rocked his chair back, then landed forward again with a thump. "It's Gandalf the Magenta."

Giles had to admit it was an apt description. The new arrival was draped in an ankle-length, reddish-purple robe with billowing sleeves and a midnight-blue cloak embroidered with gold stars and crescent moons. He had a rather magnificent mane of silver hair that hung past his waist, an equally impressive silver beard, and a long, sharp nose with a pair of half-moon spectacles balanced precariously near its tip. He should've presented an utterly ridiculous sight and yet, somehow, he didn't.

"Good morning," The old man pulled out a chair and sat across from Giles and Ethan, resting his hands on the table. Moody and Potter stood behind him, shoulder to shoulder. "I understand there has been a... certain amount of confusion. I do hope you haven't been too terribly inconvenienced."

"Actually, we have been," Ethan said coldly, while Giles was still struggling to find a diplomatic reply. "And I, for one, intend to file a complaint with--Ow!"

Giles felt a momentary pang of regret as he lifted his heel from Ethan's instep. It would've been interesting to hear just where, exactly, Ethan was planning to file his complaint. But he had the distinct feeling that Gandalf the Magenta was not someone to trifle with, even less so than the two sentries behind him. 

"It's all been _very_ confusing," he sighed, putting on his most harmlessly diffident manner and hoping Ethan would keep a straight face. "Perhaps if someone could just explain what's going on..."

"Of course." The old man smiled gently. His eyes were a pure, clear shade of blue normally seen only in very young babies. "I should start by introducing myself, shouldn't I? My name is Albus Dumbledore."

Ethan actually snickered, earning a threatening glare from Moody and a scandalized look from Potter. Dumbledore, however, did not appear to notice.

"This may take a while. We really should make ourselves comfortable." He clapped his hands. The water jug and glasses disappeared from the table, to be replaced by a full tea service for five, complete with a three-tiered serving tray loaded with breakfast pastries and five snowy linen napkins folded into elaborate rosettes. "There. This should tide us over for a while. James, Alastor, do sit down. It's very difficult to carry on a civil conversation with the two of you looming so aggressively."

Potter and Moody reluctantly settled themselves in two of the remaining chairs. Dumbledore placed a cup and a saucer in front of each man, shook out one of the napkins and draped it over his lap, took a miniature scone from the tray, and reached for the tea pot. "Now, allow me to explain..."

* * *

Four cups of tea, three raisin scones, two crumpets and a chocolate croissant later, Giles wasn't sure what would give out first: his stomach or his head.

"Look." He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, trying to push back the incipient migraine. "I'm not trying to be difficult, really I'm not, but… You're telling me that there's an entire *extra England* that's existed alongside the regular one for the past thousand years, and… and no one has noticed?"

Ethan looked annoyingly unfazed by the concept. "People have been managing not to notice vampires and demons for much longer than that."

"Vampires and demons," Giles said irritably, "don't have their own governments, schools and transportation systems."

"Oh, and such things are ever so much more noticeable than fangs, horns or extra heads?"

"To most people, yes."

"I know it must sound incredible to you." Dumbledore shrugged apologetically as he refilled his cup. (The squat teapot had produced sixteen cups of tea before Giles stopped counting, and it still showed no sign of running low.) "But believe me when I tell you it's even more incredible to us. You two gentlemen are Muggles, yet you perform magic. Not only that, but it appears to be a form of magic entirely unknown to us. Summoning demons, invoking deities… it's all very hard to believe."

"I still don't believe it," Moody grumbled. "It makes for a pretty story, but what proof do we have? I say, let's see them actually cast a spell, and then we can decide what sort of magic it is."

"It's not a bad idea." Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully. "And I must admit I'd be curious to see a demonstration."

Giles wasn't especially thrilled with the idea of putting on a show, but the unholy gleam in Ethan's eyes made him speak up quickly.

"I'll do it. I'll... uhm... need the appropriate components."

"I'm sure that can be arranged." Dumbledore rummaged within the folds of his cloak, eventually producing a blank parchment scroll and a peacock feather quill. He unrolled the parchment to lie flat on the table, and the quill rose up to hover over it. "Just tell us what you need."

It was very difficult to concentrate properly with everyone watching. Giles felt like a stage magician putting on a performance for an audience of skeptics. He resolutely ignored Moody's suspiciousness, Potter's unabashed curiosity, Ethan's amusement and Dumbledore's air of placid expectation, and focused on trying to think of a reasonably useful and harmless spell that didn't require esoteric ingredients or equipment.

"Eyebright," he said finally. "Fennel seeds. White rose petals. Vervain, rue, celandine..." The peacock quill faithfully wrote it all down. Dumbledore sat with his hands steepled in front of his chin, looking pensive, or maybe sleepy; Giles couldn't quite tell which. He didn't bat an eye at any of the ingredients Giles listed, not even the goat's liver.

When Giles finished, the quill hovered expectantly for a few more seconds, then gently settled on the table. Dumbledore picked up the parchment and held it out to Potter.

"Here you are, James. Would you mind doing the fetching? I'm sure Circe will have all the ingredients at hand."

"I'll be right back." Potter tucked the scroll into his pocket and walked over, not to the door as Giles would've expected, but to the fireplace. He pinched a small amount of some powdery gray substance from a bowl on the mantelpiece and tossed it onto the fire, releasing a quantity of thick smoke. "Potions Department, main supply room," he said loudly, walked into the flames and disappeared.

He reappeared about five minutes later, staggering out of the fireplace a great deal less gracefully then he went in, since his movements were hampered by the bulky cardboard box in his arms. He set it on the table with a thud and lifted the top flap.

"There you go. Circe didn't know if you wanted the plants fresh or dried, so she sent both kinds. Oh, and the only ivory mortar she had is a half-pint. I hope that's big enough."

"That's perfect, thank you." Giles stood up to peer into the box. Yes, there was the mortar, and the neatly tied herb bundles, and the hermetically sealed glass jar labeled "goat liver" on the lid. "Your Potions Department seems remarkably well supplied."

"Hah. You've never heard Circe grousing at budget meetings." James sat back down and snagged the last chocolate croissant from the tea tray. "She's very curious about what we're doing with her stuff, by the way. Wanted to come back here with me, and I had to put her off. I think she's peeved with me." He looked quite discomfited by that thought. "Maybe I should hire a food taster for the next week."

Both Moody and Dumbledore seemed to find this funny. Giles smiled politely and busied himself with laying out the spell components on the table.

"Need help?" Ethan asked hopefully. 

Giles glared at him. "_Don't touch a thing._"

He measured the ingredients into the mortar, mashed them into a paste, and used the feather end of Dumbledore's peacock quill to paint the spell pattern onto the tabletop. It took him a few moments to remember the opening lines of the incantation, but once he got started, the Greek syllables rolled trippingly off his tongue. He could feel the magic gathering in the air around him, a faint electric tingle that made the hair on his arms stand up. Ethan felt it too, Giles could read his expression well enough to know it, but if any of the other men sensed the power in the room, they were doing an excellent job of hiding it.

Now came the fun part. He took off his glasses, placed them in the center of the pattern, and spoke the final phrases of the incantation. There was a loud pop and a flash of pale blue light as the spell snapped into place. Ethan, who would've been expecting it, nodded his approval. Potter and Moody looked startled. Dumbledore scratched his beard and looked thoughtful.

"I do believe it worked." Giles put the glasses back on, squinted at the closed door behind Moody, and found himself looking at the empty torch-lit corridor on the other side. "Yes, it has." He took the glasses off again and held them out to Moody. "Here, would you like to try?"

Moody stared at the glasses as if he expected them to explode in his face. "What will they do?"

"Allow you to see through solid objects. Not automatically -- you have to choose what you want to see through, and concentrate a bit. It may take you a few tries, but it's really not very difficult."

"Brilliant!" Potter made a grab for the glasses, a fraction of a second ahead of Moody, and put them on in place of his own. He stared at the wall in front of him, frowning in concentration, then gave an enthusiastic whoop. "Hey, it works! I can see Frank's office. Damn, too bad he's not in it doing something embarrassing." He was grinning broadly. It made him look about twelve years old. "Hey, can you use these to see through people's robes?"

"See?" said Ethan. "It's not just me." He smirked at Potter, who smirked back. "He tried to tell me I was *frivolous*, just because it was the first thing I thought of when we learned this spell. Some people have no concept of fun."

Giles decided not to dignify that with an answer. "You can do it if you fine-tune your focus enough," he told Potter, "but if you get it wrong, you might find yourself looking at people's internal organs, which are seldom a pleasant sight."

"And if Lily finds out, you might find yourself looking at your own internal organs." Moody snatched the glasses from Potter's nose and put them on himself. Like Potter, he took only a few seconds to get the trick of it. Then he grunted with satisfaction and proceeded to examine all four walls of the room, the floor and the ceiling. "Handy, that," he said finally, and handed the glasses off to Dumbledore, who seemed quite childishly delighted with them.

Ethan was starting to look a bit put out at not being the center of attention. "Really," he muttered. "The way they're all going on, one might think you turned lead into gold or something."

"Why?" Dumbledore looked faintly surprised. "Is that supposed to be difficult?"

"I want to try something." Moody took the glasses back from Dumbledore and held his wand over them. "Revelate Incantatem!" he barked. Nothing happened. Moody raised his wand again. "Finite Incantatem!" He put the glasses on again and looked around the room. "The spell is still working," he said, sounding impressed for the first time.

"It will wear off in an hour or so," Giles told him. "Now, may I have my glasses back, please?" He took them back from Moody and polished the lenses against his shirt before putting them back on.

"It's not affected by _our_* magic!" Potter practically bounced in his seat. "This is brilliant! We can use this, Albus! Voldemort won't be able to--"

"James!" Moody said sharply.

Potter blinked, then blushed and sank a bit lower in his chair. "Sorry. Jumped ahead a bit there, didn't I?"

"Jumped ahead on what?" Giles demanded, just ahead of Ethan's "What's a Voldemort?"

No one replied. Moody and Potter looked grim, and Dumbledore's eyes lost any trace of cheerfulness. The silence stretched and stretched, until Ethan violently clapped his hands together, making everyone jump.

"Aw, come on now." He sounded almost gleeful. "Drop that other shoe. I've been waiting for it all morning."

"I apologize if we've kept you in suspense." Dumbledore walked over to the fireplace and stood with his hands folded behind his back, gazing into the flames. "But this is a painful subject for us. You see, we are engaged in a… I suppose you would call it a civil war, though I have never been fond of the phrase myself."

"Against a Voldemort?" Giles asked.

Dumbledore nodded. In profile, lit by the flickering light from the fire, his face looked older and harder than it had when he was munching biscuits at the table. "He likes to style himself Lord Voldemort, though he will never be Lord of anything if we can help it. He is quite powerful, and quite mad, and quite determined to impose his madness on the rest of us."

"He sounds charming," Ethan drawled. 

Giles thought back to that ruined house in Chiswick, with the green skull in the sky and the dreadful smell at the top of the stairs. He remembered Moody standing behind him in the interrogation room, giving off rage like heat as he accused Giles of "using Unforgivables on children."

"The house where you captured us -- had he been there? What did he do?"

"Not himself, probably," Moody growled. "It's the sort of thing he likes to send his lackeys to do. A Muggle family, nothing to do with the war. But their youngest daughter got her Hogwarts letter last week. Voldemort hates Muggleborn wizards. Wants to wipe them out."

"They killed everyone." Potter shoved his fists into his pockets and hunched his shoulders. "The parents and the three kids. Tortured them and killed them. It will be in your Muggle papers by tonight."

"It's been going on for over ten years now," Dumbledore said quietly, "with little hope of an end in sight. Voldemort is, as I said, a powerful wizard, one of the strongest who's ever lived, and he has the advantage of being willing to use methods that we won't stoop to. At least..." He frowned and lowered his head a little, stroking his beard slowly with one gnarled, long-fingered hand. "We haven't stooped to them _yet_. Things have been changing recently, and I'm afraid that if this war doesn't end soon, any victory we achieve will be no better than a defeat."

This prompted a muffled snort from Moody, who looked mildly mutinous but kept his objections to himself. Dumbledore gave no sign of noticing the interruption.

"And now here you are, Mr. Giles and Mr. Rayne, performing a type of magic that we cannot recognize, detect or counter. If you taught us your methods--"

"You'd have a new secret weapon for your side," Ethan finished the sentence for him. "How nice for you. What's in it for us?"

"_Ethan_," Giles muttered through clenched teeth. Ethan didn't spare him as much as a glance, addressing Dumbledore instead.

"It's a fair question, isn't it? You spin us such a pretty tale: magic kingdom, evil wizard, a war between darkness and light -- I can see Rupert's all ready to be measured for his shining armor." He gave Giles a smug grin, which Giles resolutely ignored. "But I like to think of myself as a practical man. If I'm going to take sides against someone who's powerful, insane and fond of torturing people, I want to know what I'm getting in return."

"Preventing more deaths isn't enough for you?" Potter asked. Ethan merely raised his eyebrows and smirked.

"It is a fair question, yes." Dumbledore turned away from the fireplace. He walked back to the table and stood with his hands resting on the back of his chair. "What sort of reward are you looking for, then?"

Ethan made a great show of thinking it over, though Giles could plainly see he already knew what he was going to demand.

"You want us to teach you our magic," he said. "Fine. You teach us yours."

"I'm afraid it doesn't work that way." Dumbledore looked genuinely regretful. "Were you both born in Britain?" Giles and Ethan both nodded. "Then, if you had any wizarding ability at all, you would've received your Hogwarts letter before your eleventh birthday. There's an easy way to make sure, of course." He pulled a wand from the folds of his cloak and held it out to Ethan, ignoring Potter and Moody's frantic signs of protest. "Here. Give it a wave."

"A wave. Right. Here it goes." Ethan leaned back in his chair, raised both arms, and gestured like a maestro in front of his orchestra. Nothing happened, though Potter and Moody both looked ready to leap out of their skins. Ethan glared at the wand as if he thought this was somehow its fault. "Should I be chanting something?" he asked. "Hocus-pocus? Abracadabra?"

Potter and Moody sprang out of their chairs as if someone had set fires under them. Moody struck at Ethan's arm, slamming it down onto the table and knocking the wand from Ethan's hand, while Potter scrambled to place himself in front of Dumbledore.

"Gentlemen!" Dumbledore's voice cut across Moody's elaborate swearing and Ethan's melodramatic groans of pain. "There's no need for alarm. Sit down, Alastor, you're frightening our guests. You too, James." His eyes held an amused but kindly gleam as he patted Potter's shoulder. "I appreciate the gesture, my boy, but I'm sure Mr. Rayne meant no harm."

Potter muttered something self-deprecating under his breath and slunk back to his chair, red-faced. Moody picked up Dumbledore's wand from the table and handed it back to him before sitting back down in the chair closest to Ethan's. Ethan edged away from him, rubbing his arm.

"You must forgive my friends," Dumbledore said. "They're a bit overprotective of me. But this little demonstration did prove my point -- the wand didn't respond to you. You cannot learn our magic."

"Wonderful," Ethan muttered. "In that case, I would like to go home now, please."

"Of course," Dumbledore said mildly. "And you, Mr. Giles?"

Giles hesitated. His instinct was to say yes, but Ethan's comment about being measured for shining armor had stung. Besides, he reminded himself, he'd had a hell of a rough night and was in no condition to be making sensible decisions. "I need to think about it," he said.

"Of course." Dumbledore nodded. "I understand it's a lot to absorb all at once. And we've all had a long night. Perhaps we should all go home and talk again tomorrow."

"That's it?" Moody looked stunned. "You're just going to let them go? They could be on another continent by tomorrow!"

Dumbledore crossed his arms over his chest, looking stern. "_We_ do not hold innocent bystanders captive for our convenience, Alastor." His tone allowed for no possibility of further conversation on the subject.

* * *

They got their wallets back, along with Ethan's deck of pornographic playing cards and Giles' battered paperback copy of *Gulliver's Travels*, and James Potter volunteered to escort them outside.

"I'm sorry about Moody," he said to Ethan as the three of them walked out into the corridor. "I hope he didn't hurt your arm much. But that word you said -- abracadabra, was it? -- I wouldn't go saying around wizards if I were you. It... makes us uncomfortable."

"Naturally." Ethan flexed his wrist and winced. "I would ask why, except I really don't care." He shivered suddenly and huddled deeper into his jacket. "Is it me, or is it getting cold in here?"

"It's not you." The temperature in the corridor was dropping rapidly. Giles stuck his hands in his armpits to warm his rapidly numbing fingers. He could see his breath misting in front of him. "What's happening?"

"Fuck!" Potter was frantically rummaging through his pockets. "What the hell are _they_ doing here? And where did I put the..."

Giles was no longer listening. The cold was seeping into his bones, leeching the strength from his limbs until he had to slump against the wall to keep from falling. For no apparent reason, he found himself thinking of Randall the night he had died -- no, the night they had killed him. Giles recalled his face, terrified and ridiculously young -- he'd been nineteen years old, the youngest and magically weakest of the group -- as he knelt in the center of the pentagram, crying. He and Ethan had lit the candles and chanted the exorcism spell, and had thought they were doing extremely well, until the flesh had begun to peel from Randall's face in rotting strips.

Next to him, Ethan was standing with his hands braced against the wall and his head lowered between his arms. Giles couldn't see his face, but he could hear his labored breathing. A few feet away, James Potter was shouting at a thin, stiff-backed man with short salt-and-pepper hair and a pencil-line moustache.

"What the devil were you thinking bringing them through here, Crouch, you know they're supposed to go in the back way!"

Crouch was making some sort of reply, and looking very supercilious while he was at it, but Giles was finding it difficult to listen, or to wonder who the mysterious "they" were that had Potter in such a state. All he could think about was Randall's body, sprawled limply on the bloodstained carpet, twitching slightly as the flesh melted from his bones.

"Mr. Giles! Can you hear me? Mr. Giles!" 

"Huh? What..." Giles shook his head, blinking. The man named Crouch had walked away down the corridor, and the air seemed to be getting warmer again. Potter, looking shaky and very angry, was pressing something into Giles' hand.

"Here, eat this. It'll help." He patted Giles' shoulder and moved on to Ethan.

"This" turned out to be a chunk of dark, bittersweet chocolate, and its effects were remarkable. Giles could feel the cold receding with every bite he took. He wolfed it down in a few seconds, and turned to see Ethan licking his fingers while James unwrapped a bar for himself with unsteady hands.

"What the fuck was that?" Ethan demanded. His voice squeaked a little on the last word.

"Dementors." Potter took a bite of his chocolate bar. "Shit. Crouch had no business taking them through here. The man thinks just because _he's_ made of stone, everyone else must be too. Do either of you need more chocolate?

"Uhm…." Giles took an experimental step away from the wall. His legs seemed to be holding him up. "I'm all right, thank you."

"I'll have some," Ethan said quickly. 

James broke off half of his remaining bar and handed it over. "You're lucky you're Muggles," he said grimly. "You don't actually have to see the things. And you don't get the full effect."

"You mean that was the diluted version?" Giles shuddered. He considered asking Potter what it had felt like to him, and decided he didn't really want to know. 

"Can we go now?" Ethan stuffed the last piece of chocolate into his mouth. "I think I've had enough of this magic kingdom."

Potter led them through the maze of corridors, then up a steep and winding staircase that appeared to terminate in a dead end. Before Giles had time to start feeling uneasy about it, Potter tapped his wand against the wall, which turned into a door.

"This will take you to Muggle London," Potter said, and held out his hand. "I hope we'll meet again."

Giles shook Potter's hand while Ethan pointedly pretended not to notice it. "How will we find you again?"

Potter grinned as he opened the door for them. "Oh, we'll be in touch."

It was bright daylight outside. Giles' watch informed him that it was seven-thirty in the morning. He stood on the pavement and turned around slowly, trying to orient himself.

"Either I'm losing my mind, or that's--"

"Banqueting House." Ethan sounded as befuddled as Giles felt. "We're in Whitehall."

"So we are." He could see the entrance to the Horse Guards just ahead and across the street. Car horns blared. A red double-decker bus sped by, carrying a contingent of early-morning commuters. Giles had to restrain a sudden urge to pinch himself. "Right. That's it. I'm going to go home, lie down in a dark room, and pretend that this all makes perfect sense."

"You do that." Ethan clapped him on the shoulder. "I, on the other hand, am going to go home, collect my belongings, change my name and move to Machu Picchu. Or maybe Milton Keynes. No one would ever look for me in Milton Keynes."

Giles frowned at him. "You can't just ignore what we've learned tonight, Ethan."

"Oh, yes, I can. And so can you. And you will, if you know what's good for you. Take my advice, Ripper, and keep away from these people. It's not your crusade."

"Actually, it is. I took an oath, you know. To gather knowledge and use it to defend the Light. To oppose the Darkness wherever I find it. It's not just a matter of Slayers, you know, it's--" Giles broke off in mid-sentence, because Ethan's shoulders were shaking, and he was making loud sputtering noises. It took Giles a moment to realize that he was laughing.

"Ah, Ripper…" Ethan shook his head as he wiped tears of merriment from his eyes. "This is why I missed you so. You have this wonderful way of making any situation humorous."

Giles felt his face grow hot and cursed himself for rising to the bait. "I'm not joking, Ethan."

"I know. You're perfectly sincere. You always are. That's what makes it so hilarious."

"I'm glad I serve a purpose in your life," Giles said peevishly. "Do call me the next time you need a laugh, and I'll do my best to oblige."

"But of course." Ethan sputtered some more. "I'll be sure to call collect from Machu Picchu. Hey, is that a taxi? Taxi!"

"Ethan, wait--" But Ethan was already climbing into the back seat of a black cab, causing a fresh explosion of car horns behind him. Giles considered getting in after him, but he was too tired and confused to argue with Ethan, and besides, he was going in the wrong direction. So he stood there quietly until the taxi pulled away; then he sighed, turned around, and headed toward Charing Cross.


	3. Chapter 3

The End of the Beginning by Rusalka 

Chapter 3 

The next day's headlines screamed of a "Mystery Massacre in West London!" There was a report on BBC News, too. It confirmed the bare bones of James Potter's story: five people, including three children, tortured and killed by gruesome yet mysteriously unspecified means. There were interviews with grim-faced policemen and a number of terrified neighbors who hadn't heard a thing. If anyone had noticed a glowing green skull hovering in the sky above the scene of the crime, they didn't mention it.

For a few minutes, Giles contemplated the possibility that Potter and Moody had committed the murders themselves, as part of some elaborate charade designed to recruit him and Ethan to the wrong side of the conflict. Not very likely, he decided; the coincidence of the two of them being outside in that particular neighborhood at that particular time would've been too difficult to either predict or arrange in advance. Unless, of course, the strange magic these people did allowed them to see the future, too...

His collection of magical texts made no mention of wizard schools, wands, Ministries of Magic, or spells that enabled the caster to produce a tea service for five out of thin air. In a way, Giles found this reassuring. He would've considered himself an irredeemable idiot if the information had actually been available somewhere and he'd managed to go all this time without ever coming across it. 

Giles tried phoning Ethan three times, but got no answer. He tried to think of somebody else he could call, and came to the depressing conclusion that there wasn't a single other person whom he could consult for advice about being recruited by total strangers into a secret magical civil war. There were people he could trust, and people who could be expected to hear the news without packing him off for psychiatric evaluation, but the two sets did not overlap.

He went to bed without having decided anything, and was awakened at an ungodly hour of the morning by a persistent tapping above his head. His sleep-fogged brain took a minute to recognize that the noise was coming from outside his window, still longer to realize that this was cause for concern, since he lived on the fourth floor. Giles clambered out of bed in a hurry and stood staring at the window, trying to figure out what might be going on behind the lowered blind. He could hear scratching and tapping against the glass, a muted scraping that sounded like sharp claws on wood, and then a rather irritated… hooting? Giles hesitated, then edged forward and carefully lifted the blind by one corner.

There was a large and obviously impatient tawny owl fidgeting on his windowsill. It glared at Giles from under the shade, gave a loud, high-pitched hoot, and drummed its beak against the glass again. There was something odd about the way it was perched, tilted slightly to one side. Giles retrieved his glasses from the bedside table, put them on, and saw that the bird had a small paper-wrapped package attached by string to one leg.

Giles opened the window. The owl hopped inside, looked around critically, then flapped across the room to settle on top of his dresser. 

"Hoo-woo!" it said.

"Good morning to you too." Giles approached it cautiously. "Uhm… is that for me? Did Dumbledore send you? Or is this some new example of Ethan's sense of humor?"

"Hoo-woo," the owl repeated with a trace of impatience. Giles sighed.

"All right, all right, I get the idea. You don't speak English, you just make the deliveries." 

The owl graciously held still while Giles untied the string and retrieved the package from its leg. It was a flat, square box about the size of his hand, with a folded note attached to the lid. The note was addressed to "Mr. Rupert Giles, 145 Tottenham Court Rd., fourth floor, second window from the East." Giles opened it first.

_Mr. Giles,  
  
As you can see, we are keeping our promise to be in touch. If you have decided to join us, please open the enclosed package at exactly 5:30 this evening. The contents will transport you to a safe meeting place. If you are not interested, simply burn the box unopened. There is nothing I can say in a letter that would be more persuasive than what I've already said in person, so I will not attempt to influence you further. I hope that you will work with us, but we will not trouble you or your friend again should you refuse.  
  
Sincerely,  
Albus Dumbledore  
  
P.S. The owl's name is Abernathy. He likes bacon, smoked turkey, and parmesan rinds._  
  


Giles looked at the box. The box just sat there.

"If I open you before 5:30," he said, "are you going to explode?"

Silence. Magical packages, apparently, spoke no more English than the owls that delivered them. Giles shook his head, feeling extremely foolish, and went to see if his fridge contained any bacon, smoked turkey, or parmesan rinds.

It was one of the longest Saturdays in Giles' life. Dumbledore's package sat on his dresser like a little silent time bomb. He couldn't be in the room without staring at it, couldn't be out of the room without thinking about it. In an effort to keep himself distracted he cleaned his flat from top to bottom, did his shopping, did his washing, re-shelved his books to a new, more efficient system, and tried to call Ethan two more times. None of it helped a bit. By mid-afternoon he was pacing, jumping at small noises, and eyeing his drinks cabinet with unhealthy longing.

At 3:45 he stormed into the bedroom, grabbed the package from the dresser and tore the wrapping paper from it. He stood there for a long while, staring at the plain brown cardboard lid, then put the box down again and retreated back to the living room.

At 4:37 he surrendered to the drinks cabinet's call and had two fingers of Scotch.

At 5:29 he stood in front of the dresser again, watching the second hand on his watch crawl toward 12. With five seconds to spare, he snatched up the box and tore off the lid.

Inside, nestled on a little pillow of cotton wool, was a chewed-looking pencil stub with the point broken off.

Giles had spent the day imagining hundreds of increasingly outrageous possibilities for what he might find in the box, but this particular one had never entered his mind. He wondered if this was one of Ethan's elaborate jokes after all. But Ethan, surely, would've come up with something more impressive for the punch line… At a loss as to what else to do, Giles reached into the box and picked the pencil stub up for closer look.

As soon as his fingers touched the wood, his whole body jerked forward, as if an invisible hand had grabbed his belt buckle and pulled. The floor disappeared, and the walls and furnishings of Giles' flat dissolved into a rushing blur of color. Giles cried out, but couldn't hear his own voice in the rush of wind that swirled around him, carrying him aloft. _Like Dorothy flying to Oz,_ he thought, and wondered half-hysterically if he was supposed to win Dumbledore's war by crushing Lord Voldemort on his landing.

The wind gave one final, deafening howl and abruptly died. There was a dizzying moment of free fall, then Giles' feet hit the ground. He stumbled forward a step, sucked in a lungful of cool air, then gagged and doubled over as his stomach attempted to turn itself inside-out. It felt as if he was sick for hours, but it was probably only a minute or so. Eventually it ended, as these things usually do. Giles straightened up, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his mouth, and slowly turned in a circle to survey his surroundings.

He was standing at the edge of a perfectly ordinary country road. There were some farm buildings in the distance, and some drowsy-looking cows grazing behind low fences. Giles could hear bird song, and a dog barking somewhere out of sight. None of it seemed even remotely magical. He scratched his head, wondering if there was some sort of puzzle he needed to solve or some illusion he had to penetrate before he could be allowed to go on.

"Mr. Giles!" James Potter was walking across the road toward him, smiling and waving. He had not been there a second ago; Giles was sure of it. He was wearing dark blue robes with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and the collar open, much more casual than the red uniform Giles had last seen him in. "You've decided to come after all. I'm glad."

"You could've warned me about the mode of transportation," Giles said. "I don't believe I've ever traveled by pencil stub before. It makes me travel sick"

Potter looked startled. "Dumbledore didn't tell you? He said he was going to write a letter--"

"He did write, yes. It was a somewhat incomplete explanation." Giles shoved the pencil in his back pocket. "I'm starting to get the feeling that your Dumbledore is... a little eccentric, perhaps?"

"Nutty as a fruitcake," Potter said cheerfully. "When I'm one hundred and forty years old and the most powerful wizard in the world, I'm going to be nutty too, and no one will tell me nay, either. I can't wait." He stopped in the center of the road and looked from side to side. "I don't see Mr. Rayne. He didn't come with you?"

Giles shook his head. "I haven't been able to reach him. Did Dumbledore send him an owl and a pencil, too?"

"An owl and something, anyway." Potter looked slightly crestfallen. "Let's wait a few minutes. Maybe he'll turn up."

Giles sincerely doubted it, but decided a short wait wouldn't hurt. If nothing else, it would give him some time to ask questions.

"Mr. Potter... or is it Officer Potter? Wizard Potter?"

"Ugh. Technically, it's Auror Potter, but I'd rather stick with James, if you don't mind. Titles make me feel absolutely _ancient_."

Giles carefully kept a straight face. James Potter looked barely old enough to drink. "James, then -- provided you drop the Mr. and call me Giles -- would you mind telling me where we are? Or will that be a security breach of some sort?"

"Not at all. We're in Chilham. Or just south of Chilham, anyway. If you go about two miles up the road that way," James pointed to his left, "you'll hit the Muggle train station."

"Ah." Well, at least he knew how to get back without having to resort to the pencil stub again. "So what's so special about Chilham?"

"Nothing in particular." James shrugged. "Dumbledore has a safe house near here -- he's got them all over the country. It's reasonably comfortable and *very* well warded, so we thought it would be a good place for a first meeting. You've drawn quite a crowd, you know."

"A crowd?" Giles felt a sudden impulse to start backing toward the train station. "I didn't expect--that is… I hope you didn't expect a formal lecture or anything, because I really didn't prepare--"

"No worries," James said firmly. "Believe me, most of the folks that are coming would never speak to me again if I dragged them out here to listen to a lecture." He grinned and clapped Giles on the shoulder. "Relax. I know we didn't get off on the right foot the last time, but we're really not Trolls, you know. Well, most of us aren't, anyway. It'll be all right."

"I'm not worried." Giles leaned against the fence that separated the cow pasture from the road, and tried to look casual. He wished Ethan had come. It would've been reassuring to have someone capable to back him up in case this turned out to be a bad mistake, and Ethan, for all his flaws, was certainly capable. Unfortunately, it seemed that he had decided not to get involved.

"Your friend's not going to come, is he?" James said ruefully. 

Giles sighed. "I'm afraid not. Ethan doesn't like to involve himself in other people's troubles." _Unless he's causing them..._

"I suppose we might as well go, then." James walked out into the road. "Come on; it's a short walk."

They followed the road for about half a mile, then turned onto a dirt path that led to a dilapidated thatch-roofed shack hidden behind a small copse of trees. They'd just come within view of it when James stopped and put one hand on Giles' arm.

"Hold on," he said and drew his wand. "I'm going to tell the wards to recognize you."

Giles held very still while James ran the wand from the top of his head down to his feet, first in front, then in back, muttering to himself all the while. He felt nothing -- no hint of a supernatural presence, no trace of power being channeled. It was unnerving. 

"What would happen if you didn't do this?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing terrible." James squatted to trace a circle on the ground around Giles' feet. "The anti-Muggle charms are harmless. You'd go a few more yards, suddenly remember an urgent appointment back in London, rush off and forget you've ever been here. The wards against unauthorized wizards are another story, but you don't have to worry about those." He tucked the wand back into his sleeve and stood. "There. You should be all right now."

"Thanks. Uhm… so is that the safe house?" Giles looked at the shack dubiously. It was tiny and ancient. The roof had holes in it and the single window was cracked and coated with grime. "Let me guess -- it's bigger on the inside than on the outside?"

"Damn." James looked disappointed. "I was hoping to surprise you."

They walked around to the entrance, which faced away from the road. There was a black motorcycle parked by the door. It looked sleek and shiny and completely out of place. A red helmet with a tinted full-face visor dangled from one handlebar.

"Oh, good," said James. "Sirius is here already. You can meet him and Lily and Harry first." He held the door open.

Giles stepped inside and found himself in a wide, carpeted hallway that stretched at least thirty feet ahead of him. The walls were paneled in oak at the bottom, papered in cream-colored wallpaper at the top. A curved staircase with an elaborately carved banister led to a second story that had not been visible from outside. Somehow, the entire space was brightly illuminated by a single candle suspended from the ceiling in a cut glass lantern. There was a low wooden bench, a wall-mounted coat rack, and a slotted wooden contraption that looked like an oversized umbrella stand, except instead of umbrellas it held a pair of old-fashioned twig brooms. A pair of robes hung on the coat rack: one silver-gray, one pale green with embroidered flower trim on the cuffs and collar.

"All right, I'm impressed." Giles ran his hand over the snarling lion's head that crowned the bottom of the banister. "I don't suppose I could persuade you to work the same trick on my flat?"

"You'll have to speak to Dumbledore. This is way beyond what most wizards can do." James pulled his robes off over his head, revealing perfectly ordinary black trousers and a red rugby shirt. "Space-warping charms are *hard*. Lily and I took a week adding the nursery to our house before Harry was born, and Lily is better than most at this stuff."

"James?" a woman's voice called out. "Is that you, and if it is, why are you hanging about in the hallway?"

The grin with which James Potter greeted this rather prosaic question was the unmistakable symptom of a man gone silly with love.

"Just a sec!" he yelled, hastily tossing his robes onto the coat rack. "Come on, Giles. Meet the missus."

The safe house living room was nearly as big as Giles' entire flat, and decorated in warm shades of amber, brown and burgundy. There was an oversized sofa piled with tapestry-covered cushions, two plush matching armchairs in front of a marble fireplace, a floor-to-ceiling bookcase taking up one entire wall, a low table with a chess board on it, and a deep bay window with more cushions strewn on the sill. A portable playpen and a scattering of brightly colored baby toys occupied one corner, but there was no baby in sight.

A young woman sat curled up in the window seat with a book in her lap. She looked perfectly unremarkable, dressed in jeans and a white peasant blouse, with dark red hair clipped into an untidy ponytail. When she saw James and Giles, she put the book aside and stood up.

"You must be Mr. Giles." She held out her hand, and Giles shook it. Her eyes were a vivid emerald green, the only striking feature in an otherwise ordinary face. "I'm Lily. I understand my husband has been horribly mistreating you."

"Have not!" James assumed an entirely unconvincing expression of injured innocence.. "All I did was Stupefy him, abduct him, chain him in a dungeon, rifle his wallet and leave him alone with Alastor Moody. I was positively *angelic* -- tell her, Giles."

"It was the most charming interrogation I've ever had," Giles assured her solemnly.

"Oh, now you're just encouraging him." Lily's attempt to look stern was about on par with her husband's attempt to look innocent. "And speaking of people who shouldn't be encouraged, Sirius is in the parlor with our child. I take no responsibility for any material damages that may incur." 

"We're doomed." James planted a quick kiss on the back of Lily's neck, walked back to the door, and stuck his head into the hallway. "Hey, Sirius, company's here! Whatever you're doing, stop it, bury the evidence, and bring Harry out here."

An explosion of boisterous barking greeted this pronouncement, followed by a gleeful cry of "Dada!" James jumped back from the door just in time to avoid being bowled over by the largest, blackest Irish wolfhound Giles had ever seen. Scurrying behind the dog on all fours was a black-haired, green-eyed toddler in yellow dungarees and a red t-shirt.

James hoisted the toddler up onto his shoulder with a grunt. "Giles, this is Harry. And this mangy brute--" he aimed a half-hearted kick at the dog, which pranced aside. "--is Padfoot, who has obviously mislaid his manners. Say hello, Padfoot."

The dog barked once, sat down on the rug in front of Giles, and lifted its front right paw. Giles didn't even have to bend down to take it.

"Nice to meet you." The paw was almost too big to grip, and endowed with gleaming black claws that looked as if they would punch through steel. Giles shook it gingerly, looking sideways at James and Lily, who were looking simultaneously amused and exasperated. "He's very well trained, isn't he?"

"No, he's not," said James.

"Though God knows we keep trying," said Lily. "Sirius, are you going to behave, or do I have to find a newspaper to smack you with?"

The dog gave a deep, long-suffering sigh. The air around it shimmered a little. The lines of its body blurred, stretching upwards, and then the dog was gone. In its place stood a tall young man with shaggy black hair and a smile that boded no good.

"They never let me have any fun," he said plaintively. "I'm Sirius Black. Nice to meet you."

Giles would've liked to sit Sirius Black down and question him -- he had never seen an animal transformation that incorporated the shape-shifter's clothing -- but little Harry chose this opportune moment to throw his father's glasses into the fireplace. They were promptly retrieved by Sirius, repaired by Lily and restored to their rightful place by James, but by then Giles had been thoroughly distracted, and by the time he remembered what he'd meant to ask, more company had arrived.

For the next two hours, people continued to trickle in at a steady rate. Some carried brooms and groused about flying conditions; others appeared with no visible means of transportation. Everyone seemed to know each other. Giles found himself shaking an endless succession of hands and trying, rather desperately, to memorize an endless succession of names. Remus Lupin. Circe Culpepper. Anita and Tobias McKinnon. Arabella Figg. Peter Pettigrew. Amos Diggory. Phil Brocklehurst. Some were as young as James and Lily, some looked closer in age to Giles' parents. Their clothes ranged from Sirius' jeans and cotton shirt to Amos Diggory's stately Edwardian frock coat. And just about everyone greeted Giles with some version of "So you're Dumbledore's Muggle wizard, are you? Can't wait to see you do your stuff." Giles began to entertain wistful thoughts of sneaking out the back door and making a run for the train station.

"Giles?" Lily Potter was at his side, smiling sympathetically. "Would you mind giving me a hand?"

He followed her into the kitchen -- the blessedly empty, quiet kitchen -- and arranged canapés on platters while Lily cast spells to warm them up.

"A little overwhelming, isn't it?" she said. "I remember when I first came to Hogwarts… I was the only Muggle-born witch in my year, and I didn't know _anybody_. All the other kids were running around in funny clothes and writing with quill pens... I thought, oh God, I could never live in this world, these people are all insane. And then James turned my backpack into a cocker spaniel, and I had to chase it down in the Great Hall and get the Transfigurations teacher to change it back." She leaned her elbows on the counter and gazed dreamily into space.

"Sounds like love at first sight." Giles laid out a row of miniature quiches on a silver tray. "So you didn't grow up with all this, then?"

"No." Lily straightened up abruptly, the dreamy nostalgia fading from her eyes. "My family's as non-magical as they come. But I learned. I do live in this world now." She held out one hand and tapped it with her wand. "Papilio." 

An iridescent red butterfly appeared in her cupped palm. Its wings were the size of saucers. Lily waved the wand over it and it turned yellow, then blue, then purple. She blew on it, and it disappeared. 

"It's a good world. Or it can be." A stray lock of hair fell across Lily's cheek. She tucked it back behind her ear, momentarily hiding her face from Giles' view. "I've never actually seen it at peace, you know. James and the others -- they remember what it was like before Voldemort. Me, I just want to see what it will be like once he's gone. The way things are now… sometime I wonder what the hell James and I were thinking, bringing a baby into this mess."

Giles resisted the urge to offer futile reassurances. Everything he'd heard so far suggested that Lily had good cause to wonder. "I'll help in any way I can, you know."

"I know." She patted his hand lightly. "We're strangers to you, Rupert Giles, and our war is not your war, yet here you are. I'm grateful. We're all grateful."

Giles considered telling her about his Watcher oath, and decided it would be too complicated. "If ordinary people are being killed in their homes," he said, "then I'd say it is my war."

"Most people don't seem to see it that way."

"Most people don't know it's happening," Giles pointed out. He was feeling extremely awkward. The conversation had taken an unnervingly dark turn, and he was pretty sure Lily had not intended this when she recruited him to help with the canapés. Perhaps it was time for a diplomatic change of subject. "How common is it for us, uhm, Muggles to learn about wizards?"

"More common than you might think." Lily pounced on the new topic with visible relief. "There's Muggle families with wizard children, and Muggles who marry wizards… happens all the time." Her smile broadened as she warmed to her subject. "Tobias McKinnon is a barrister in London. Nobody knows how he managed to hook up with Anita; if you ask him, he'll just smile enigmatically and say something about client confidentiality."

Giles craned his neck to look out the kitchen door. From where he stood he could just barely catch a glimpse of the living room. McKinnon, a bearded man the size of a small grizzly bear, was sprawled on the couch with his petite wife curled up in his lap like a contented cat. James had introduced Anita as a fellow Auror, and hinted jokingly that Giles had been lucky to be picked up by him and Moody rather than her.

He turned back to Lily to find her watching him expectantly. "I'm sorry, you were saying..."

"I was saying, Sirius' mum is Theresa Shanahan." She clearly expected Giles to recognize the name.

It took him a few seconds to make the connection. "I'm sorry, I don't--oh. You mean as in Shanahan Breweries? Shanahan's Extra Stout? 'Brewed from our secret family recipe since 1694?'"

"That's the one. Sirius has a scrapbook with all the newspaper clippings. It was a great big scandal at the time."

"I think I remember." Giles scratched the back of his neck. "I was just a kid, of course, but... wasn't she engaged to an earl or something?"

"And she ran off three days before the wedding and eloped with Orion Black. Disgustingly romantic, isn't it? Her parents wouldn't speak to her for three years, then melted and coughed up a trust fund when she presented them with a grandchild." Lily shook her head. "Apparently, the Sirius Black charm worked right from the cradle."

"Hey, Lily." A short, round young man shuffled his feet in the doorway. Giles vaguely recalled being introduced to him a few minutes before, but the name had already vanished from his mind. "Do you want a hand with all this stuff?"

"Thanks, Peter." Lily levitated a stack of small plates off the counter and sailed them across the kitchen. They rattled ominously when Peter caught them, but none actually fell. "Here, why don't you take these in, and Giles and I will bring the food."

Back in the living room, someone had either brought in or conjured more chairs and arranged them in a semicircle around the fireplace. The crowd had broken up into smaller groups, the way large gatherings normally do, people chatting among themselves as if it was any ordinary party. Giles caught random snatches of conversation as he maneuvered his platter toward the table.

"...Crouch looks like a sure bet, but frankly, I'm not sure if I want him in charge of..."

"...Can substitute dried gillyweed for fresh if you soak it in salt water for twelve hours, but the results won't be..."

"...Know you're overqualified for it, Remus, but it'll tide you over until something better..."

"He can say Padfoot now. Say Padfoot, Harry." "Pafoo!" "Good boy!"

"Food is here!" Lily announced loudly. There was a lull in the conversations as everyone helped themselves.

"Giles!" James made his way through the crowd, accompanied by a slight, faded-looking young man still dressed in his robes. "Have you met Remus yet? He's all agog to speak with you.. Or as agog as Remus ever gets, anyway. Tell him what you've been reading, Moony."

Remus Lupin had light brown hair, light brown eyes, and a thin, tired face with sharply etched lines around his mouth. Despite the extra layer of clothing, he looked as if he was cold. The sleeves of his robe were frayed at the edges and his boots were scuffed. He was the first wizard Giles had met who didn't look healthy and prosperous. But he did seem, if not exactly agog, then at least genuinely pleased as he and Giles claimed two chairs close to the fire.

"Mr. Giles. James has been telling me all sorts of interesting things about you. I've done a bit of research and I was just wondering -- have you ever heard of Flavius Belby?"

"I'm afraid not," Giles said. Remus looked disappointed.

"Oh. I had hoped... he was a well-known wizard about two hundred years ago. Traveled a great deal in his youth, and published his journals later. One of the entries mentions an old man he met in China, who apparently performed magic without a wand. Belby doesn't actually call him a Muggle, and most scholars have assumed he was a particularly old and powerful wizard who'd outgrown the need for a wand, but now I'm wondering if it's true. The descriptions of the spells have always seemed odd to me. Maybe you'd be familiar..."

Before he knew what hit him, Giles found himself fielding a series of detailed, persistent and highly specialized questions about Chinese magical tradition, a subject he had never studied in great depth. It didn't help that Remus' own knowledge appeared to be both extensive and completely at odds with everything Giles had ever learned. Giles was desperately trying to recall anything he might've read about demon summoning spells from the early Qing dynasty when he was rescued by Sirius Black bearing a plate of food in each hand. 

"Stop hogging the guest of honor, Moony, and eat something." Sirius handed one plate to Remus and one to Giles. "Hey, did you hear Harry? He can say Padfoot now." 

Remus gave an amused snort. "He probably learned just so you'd stop pestering him. Me, I'm going to teach him how to say _useful_ things. Like, 'Shut up, Sirius' and 'Go away, Sirius,' and 'Yes, Sirius, I'm still eating that.'"

"Yeah, like any of those ever did you any good." Sirius pulled over a chair and sat down, and conversation turned into an enthusiastic recital of everything Harry could say and do. This, too, was a topic Giles was mostly ignorant about, but at least no one expected him to do anything but smile and nod. It was very relaxing, and he had time to finish most of his food before James came up to interrupt them.

"All right, I think everyone's here now, time to get down to business. Are you ready, Giles?"

"I suppose so." Giles noticed for the first time that the room had fallen mostly silent, and all the chairs were occupied by witches and wizards who were watching him with varying degrees of skepticism, expectation and curiosity. He put his plate down and surreptitiously wiped his hands on his trousers. Public speaking in front of strangers had never been his forte. "Right. Uhm. I assume James… or somebody… has told you all what this is all about?"

"Muggle magic," Amos Diggory said gruffly. He was one of the skeptical contingent. "A bit of a contradiction in terms, if you ask me."

"It is," Giles admitted, "if you're talking about the sort of magic you do. As far as I can tell, yours is an… an internal power, so to speak. You draw on some replenishable reservoir of magic within yourselves to cast your spells, is that correct?" There were thoughtful nods all around. "Well, we Muggles…" Giles tried not to wince at the word, which sounded rather insulting to him but was obviously commonplace to everyone else. "We don't have such a reserve. We must draw on external sources to power our spells. This can be done either by channeling the magic inherent in the Earth and everything connected with it, or by bargaining with various classes of supernatural beings: gods, demons and, for some forms of magic, spirits of the dead." 

This raised a few eyebrows even among the non-skeptics; Diggory muttered something about fairy tales under his breath, and was kicked in the ankle by Arabella Figg. Giles decided to pretend he hadn't noticed. This was basic material, stuff he'd learned at his grandmother's knee, and he found that the explanation came easily enough once he got started.

"The second method requires the least skill, but is more dangerous and less reliable. Gods prefer to command rather than bargain, while demons and spirits can be dishonest, mischievous or actively malicious. The first method requires a fair amount of study and effort, but is much less likely to get you possessed or eaten."

"Where's the fun in _that_?" Sirius Black drawled, and was kicked in the ankle by Lily.

James and Remus had taken out notebooks and quill pens and were scribbling notes as Giles spoke. A few of the others were starting to follow their example. Giles hoped it meant they were taking him seriously.

"There is a fair amount of overlap between the two methods," he went on. "You have to channel at least some magical energy in order to invoke whatever being you intend to bargain with, and if you channel enough of it you may find that you've attracted their attention even without meaning to. It's up to you to decide how to use the techniques I will teach. Do keep in mind, though, that supernatural entities don't have the same morals and priorities as humans do. Once you bring your war to their attention, they may very well decide that they like your enemies better than they like you." Giles paused to let that idea sink in. "Am I making myself clear? Good. Let's move on, then."

There was no need to spend a lot of time on fundamentals. They were all familiar with the magical properties of most common plants and minerals; they understood the value of incantation and ritual for focusing magical energy. But it had apparently never occurred to them to wonder why a specific sequence of runes painted on the floor could serve to strengthen a spell, or what made some materials inherently magical. They chanted doggerel Latin for their spells, but only Lily, Remus and Circe Culpeper actually knew the language. Wizarding education, it seemed, was thorough and rigorous on practice but appallingly thin on theory. 

After an hour of talking, they broke for dinner. By then Giles was blasé enough to not even bother wondering where the roast leg of lamb, the peas or the mashed potatoes had come from. He just concentrated on enjoying his food and answering the rapid-fire barrage of questions from Remus Lupin and Circe Culpeper, who were seated on either side of him. Remus was still obsessing over Chinese magical history. Circe -- a plump, gray-haired woman in a high-waisted gown that made her look like the mother of a Jane Austen heroine -- turned out to be an expert potion maker. She had supplied the materials for Giles' magical demonstration two days before, and was now determined to press him for details. Giles felt almost guilty at having to tell her that his spell had not, in fact, involved a potion.

After the meal, Giles herded everyone back into the living room and guided them through a number of simple meditation exercises, leading up to a group attempt to levitate their quill pens. The results were somewhat disappointing. The only unqualified success was Lily, who got her quill to hover a foot above the floor for almost thirty seconds before her concentration faltered. Peter Pettigrew's quill made a few short, fluttery hops but never quite took off. Tobias McKinnon made his twitch a little, much to his delight ("See, honey, I'll be magicking rings around you in no time!"). Everyone else's quills remained stubbornly motionless, no matter how long their owners glared at them with furrowed brows and stubbornly set jaws.

"It's like being in first-year Charms all over again," Sirius complained. "Can't we just swish and flick like normal people?"

"I don't understand," said Remus. "If the magic for this spell is really external, shouldn't anyone be able to do it?"

"Well," said Giles, "magic is a bit like electricity; some people are conductors, and some are insulators." Everyone except Lily, Sirius and Tobias looked at him as if he'd just spoken in ancient Sumerian. Giles took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "No, Remus. Not everyone can do it."

Still, he would've expected a higher rate of success. The Watchers Council estimated that nearly a third of the normal human population should be able to perform basic spells if given appropriate training, and the percentage was even higher in magically-charged places like Stonehenge and Little Sark. Then again, wizards could not be counted among the normal human population, could they? Giles shook his head and wondered what Amos Diggory would say if Giles tried to tell him that he couldn't do magic because he was a wizard.

By the time Giles finally called a halt to the night's lesson, everyone was tired and grumpy and complaining of headaches. There was a shuffling, weary procession into the hallway, where people gathered their robes and brooms and said their good-byes. Some of them promised to practice further at home, but they sounded pretty half-hearted about it. Giles wondered how many of them would come back.

Eventually everyone cleared out except Giles, James and Lily, Sirius, Remus, Peter, and little Harry peacefully asleep in his playpen. Giles looked at his watch and was startled to discover it was after midnight.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I've kept you up all night without much to show for it, haven't I? I'm sure you were hoping for more dramatic results."

"Hmm." James scratched his head. "I admit we would've liked it much better if you had handed us the key to Voldemort's defeat in one evening, but no one was really expecting it. It takes seven years for Hogwarts to turn out a decently trained wizard. I suppose your magic doesn't come overnight, either. Besides…" He caught Lily's hand as she wandered past the couch and pulled her into his lap. "You were brilliant, Lil."

"So was Peter," Lily said. Peter's chubby face blushed a brilliant shade of pink and he ducked his head.

"I really didn't think I'd be able to do it," he muttered.

"That's your problem, Wormtail." Sirius slapped him on the back. "You always think you can't do it, and then you always find out you can. When are going to get over this inferiority complex of yours and become vain and overconfident like the rest of us?"

"By 'rest of us,'" Remus said, "I presume you mean yourself."

"Naturally." Sirius stifled a yawn. "We want Peter to aspire to perfection, after all."

"Right," said James. "And on that note of insanity, I think we should all go home and get some sleep. Giles, do you still have your Portkey?"

"The pencil stub, you mean? I believe so." Giles patted his pocket. "But I really don't think I care to travel that way again. How far did you say it was to the train station?"

"You're going to take the train this time of night?" James looked shocked. "It will take forever!"

"No more than a few hours, I'm sure--"

"And besides, I think it's starting to rain." James waved his hand toward the window. "There's got to be a better way to get you home."

"Can I give him a ride?" Sirius asked hopefully. James gave him a repressive glare.

"No."

"We can put him on the Knight Bus," said Remus. "That's should be quick and comfortable enough. And dry. One of us will just have to go out with him to flag it down."

"I'll go," said Peter. "I was planning to take the Knight Bus home myself. I don't like to Apparate when I'm sleepy."

Everyone except Sirius seemed to think this was a great idea, and ten minutes later Giles found himself clutching a hot water bottle and a mug of hot cocoa as he sprawled on an oversized brass bed inside a mammoth triple-decker bus. On the next bed over, Peter was carefully tucking a blanket around his legs.

"Isn't this nice? I've had my Apparating license for almost a year now, but this is still my favorite way to travel. Oh, it takes a bit longer, but it's warm and comfy, the cocoa is excellent, and you don't have to worry about splinching yourself."

"Splinching?" Giles had received a cursory explanation of Apparating during the course of the evening, but no one had mentioned splinching as a possible side effect.

"Leaving bits of yourself behind." Peter shuddered dramatically. "Ugh. Not nice at all."

"That's putting it mildly." Giles looked at the other man through narrowed eyes, but Peter appeared to be perfectly serious. "Does it happen a lot?"

"Not really, no. Not to people who know what they're doing, anyhow. Though Sirius did leave his left arm behind at a party in Glasgow once, but he was _really_ plastered when it happened." Peter's eyes sparkled. "James and Remus and I didn't let him live that one down for months."

Giles sipped his cocoa -- which really was excellent -- while he processed this information. In the end, he decided to address the one point he was actually clear on.

"You four are really close, aren't you?"

"Yeah." Peter nodded enthusiastically. "We were all in Gryffindor together, of course, and it's hard not to make friends when you're sharing a dorm for seven years straight, but a lot of people drift apart after they leave school, and we never did. We've stuck together. The guys -- they're family to me, they really are."

Giles felt a brief pang of jealousy, quickly dismissed as unworthy. He himself had chosen his boyhood friends first to please their parents, then to spite them. It was his own damn fault if neither option turned out well. "You're lucky," he said.

"And don't I know it." Peter hugged a pillow to his chest. "I know I'm not brilliant like Remus, or fun like Sirius or a big Quidditch star like James. I could've been that stupid fat kid everybody picks on if they hadn't decided to be friends with me. Believe me, I don't ever forget how lucky I am."

"I meant, all four of you are lucky," Giles said gently. Peter flashed him a shy, fleeting smile.

"Thanks."

There was a loud metallic bang as the bus jerked to a stop.

"Muggle London!" the driver called out. "Tott'nam Court Road!"

"I believe that's my stop." Giles climbed off the bed. "It was a pleasure to meet you Peter. I hope to see you next time."

"I'll be there." Peter smiled and waved.

The bus had dropped him off right at his front door. Giles staggered wearily up the stairs and down the hall, and was reaching to insert his key into the lock when he noticed the pale line of light at the bottom of the door. He clearly remembered leaving the lights off. 

Giles took a step back and checked the number on the door. It was the right flat. He crouched down to check the lock. No sign of tampering. The hallway was empty and absolutely quiet. Giles checked his watch. It was one in the morning. He wondered how his neighbors would react if he knocked them up at this hour and asked to use their phone to report an intruder. Assuming the intruder was still there… Giles pressed his ear against the door. He could hear something -- voices, or laughter, he wasn't sure.

"Oh, for God's sake, Ripper, just come in!" a slurred voice called from the inside. "You think I can't hear you shuffling around out there? You're losing your touch."

"Ethan." Giles took a moment to wrestle his temper into submission before going in. "What are you doing here?"

"Sitting on your couch," Ethan said smugly. He had his feet up on the coffee table, next to an open bottle and an empty glass. "Drinking your Scotch. Watching your telly." He clicked the remote and the sound of canned laughter cut off abruptly. "You're out late."

"You know perfectly well where I've been." Giles leaned his back against the door and yawned. He was too tired to spar with Ethan, too tired to even get properly worked up about this invasion of his privacy. "I've called you a thousand times."

"I know. I've been ignoring you." Ethan poured the last of the Scotch into his glass and took a sip. "Your flat is much nicer than mine, by the way. I've just been thinking how I might take over the lease if you didn't come back."

"If I didn't--" Giles blinked in sleepy amazement. Suddenly, Ethan's tipsy presence in his living room at one in the morning began to make a kind of sense. "Ethan. Were you _worried_ about me?"

Ethan snorted loudly into his drink. "You're delusional. Or maybe senile. Turning thirty can do that to you, I hear."

"You're thirty-two," Giles pointed out equably. "And there was no reason for you to worry. You really should've come, you know. You might've liked these people. They're nice."

Ethan's inebriated grin did not quite reach his eyes. "I don't like nice people, Ripper."

"You're drunk." Giles took the empty bottle from the table, carried it into the kitchenette and dropped it into the bin. "Do you want to sleep on the sofa? I've got extra blankets."

"No, thanks." Ethan stood, wobbling only a little. "If I can't have your flat, I'm going back to mine." He walked to the door, opened it, and jumped back with a curse. "Shit! Did you know you have rats in your hallway, Ripper?"

"I'm sure we have nothing of the sort." Giles came over and peered over Ethan's shoulder. "This is a very clean building. You'll be seeing pink elephants next, Ethan. Are you sure you don't want to stay here? You can have the bed, and I'll take the couch."

"Well, aren't you the generous one?" Ethan's sneer looked fit to corrode the paint off the walls. "Thanks, but no thanks. You can have your bed all to yourself. Give my regards to the nice people."

"Ethan…" Giles began, and got the door slammed in his face for a response. "Well. That was a constructive conversation." 

Ethan's glass still had a bit of Scotch left at the bottom. Giles picked it up and drained it, left the glass in the kitchen sink, and staggered off to bed.


	4. Chapter 4

The End of the Beginning by Rusalka 

Chapter 4 

There was a time, Ethan reflected sourly, when he could've drunk all of Ripper's Scotch at night and still feel bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning. That time was long past, though, and now he crawled out of bed at noon, feeling like something that had been scraped off the bottom of a shoe. Experience had taught him that simple remedies worked best; he staggered into the bathroom and gulped down three large glasses of water in quick succession, then crawled into the tub and turned the shower on as hot as he could stand. 

By the time the water ran lukewarm he felt more or less human again -- enough to contemplate coffee and toast, anyway. *Not* enough to notice the uninvited guest in his living room until the stranger announced his presence with a loud cough. Ethan was quite proud of his reaction: he did not yelp, fall over, or jump for the ceiling. All he did was gasp a little and drop the towel he'd been rubbing his hair with.

"Pardon my intrusion," the stranger drawled in accents posh enough to raise the property values in the entire neighborhood. "I hope I didn't frighten you too badly."

"You didn't frighten me at all." Ethan left the towel where it was and leaned against the wall in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner. He was about three feet away from the counter that separated his living room from the kitchen area. There was a set of knives on the counter, each blade neatly slotted into its proper place in the wooden stand. Ethan did not look at it. "May I ask what you're doing in my flat?"

The stranger sat in the armchair by the window, perched stiffly on the edge of the seat, as if contact with such an inferior piece of furniture was an insult to his distinguished arse. He had light, silver-gray eyes and a pale, chiseled face with hair so blond it looked almost white in the sunlight that streamed through the window. No one with that coloring had any business wearing dark green, yet that was exactly what the man wore -- a long, flowing robe of what looked like raw silk, trimmed with black velvet and fastened with elaborate silver clasps shaped like entwined snakes. He should've looked like a corpse. Instead he looked like a Renaissance noble slumming in a peasant's hovel. Ethan became uncomfortably aware that he himself was dressed in nothing but a shabby flannel bathrobe which currently hung open in a way that did nothing for either style or modesty. He resisted the impulse to pull it shut and shoved his hands into his pockets instead. Let the bastard get an eyeful.

"You are Ethan Rayne, yes?" The man didn't even wait for Ethan's response before continuing. "I'm Lucius Malfoy. I wish to speak with you about a business proposition."

"That's nice." Ethan couldn't quite match Malfoy's accent, but he thought he did a pretty good job emulating the drawling tone. "Call for an appointment, and I'll see if I can fit you in sometime next week."

Malfoy reached inside his robe. Ethan kept his hands in his pockets. Malfoy pulled out a wand and polished it on sleeve. His face looked thoroughly bored, but something about the measured slowness of his movements made Ethan think he was wrestling with his temper.

"I know you met with Albus Dumbledore two days ago," he said. "And I know he tried to recruit you to work for him, and you turned him down. I -- and the people I represent -- think this shows remarkably good judgment on your part. We'd like to make you a better offer."

"Ah." Ethan wasn't exactly surprised, but he wasn't about to be taken in by Malfoy's unconvincing attempt at a friendly tone, either. He kept an eye on the man's wand and poised himself to duck if necessary. "You'll be with…" He searched his memory for the name. "Lord Voldemort, then?"

"Precisely." Malfoy gave his wand one final polish and tucked it into the cuff of his sleeve, where it was not immediately threatening yet easily accessible. More accessible, certainly, than any weapon Ethan himself might conceivably reach for. "Now I'm sure Dumbledore filled your head with all sorts of terrifying nonsense, but I hope you'll listen with an open mind."

Ethan considered asking what would happen if he said no, but decided not to push it. Not until he was in a better position to defend himself, anyway. "Do you mind if I get dressed first?"

"What? Oh, yes, of course." Malfoy looked faintly surprised, as if he'd only just noticed that Ethan was standing there with all his unmentionable bits hanging out. "Take your time."

Alone in the bedroom, Ethan surveyed his wardrobe and concluded that his one good suit would still look grubby next to Malfoy's archaic finery. So he decided to go to the other extreme and pulled out his shabbiest jeans, a Pink Floyd t-shirt he hadn't worn in years, and a denim jacket with plenty of pockets. He dressed quickly, then took a moment to dig through the box he kept in the back of his closet for emergencies, pocketing a number of crystals, vials and pouches that might prove useful. He had seen enough to know that he couldn't cast a spell from scratch faster than Malfoy could wave his wand, but with a little preparation he thought he could still beat the other wizard to the draw.

Back in the living room, Lucius Malfoy had deigned to settle more comfortably into the armchair and was sipping something that looked like cognac from a crystal snifter. Ethan, who owned neither cognac nor crystal and didn't feel up to consuming more alcohol anyhow, went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of orange juice before sitting down on the couch.

"All right," he said. "My mind is open. Make your offer."

Malfoy circled the rim of his glass with one long finger, an elegant gesture he probably practiced in front of the mirror. "Lord Voldemort wishes to offer you employment," he said. "He can offer you a great deal of wealth and, more to the point, a great deal of power. I assume Dumbledore has told you that you cannot learn to do our kind of magic?"

Ethan nodded, interested in spite of himself. "His wand wouldn't work for u--for me. He said I wasn't born with the ability."

"Ah, yes." Malfoy looked smug. "That old story. Nonsense, of course. A wizard can't work with just any old wand -- it must be custom made, and it takes months of training before you can start getting any use of it. Letting you wave his wand around and declaring you're no wizard because you couldn't cast a spell is like handing you an unfamiliar musical instrument and declaring you're no musician because you can't immediately play it."

This confirmed Ethan's own suspicions, but he was careful to maintain a skeptical expression. "So Dumbledore was lying, then? You can teach me to do what you do?'

"In return for you teaching us. Magic for magic. A fair trade, wouldn't you say? More than fair, since you'll be getting paid. What do you say, Mr. Rayne?"

"That depends. What if I say no?"

Malfoy's smile lowered the temperature in the room by about twenty degrees. "I really suggest you do not."

Ethan stuck his right hand into his pocket and sorted through the items inside by feel until he felt his fingers close around a small packet of wax paper. He took a good grip on it and met Lucius Malfoy's pale gaze with a thin-lipped smile.

"I say, let your Lord make his offer himself. I don't deal with flunkies."

Malfoy's face turned a very unbecoming shade of pink when he was angry. "What did you say?"

Ethan enunciated very carefully, as if speaking to an idiot child. "I said, I don't deal with flunkies. You know -- messenger boys. Servants. I want to speak to somebody who actually has author--" he stopped talking, because Malfoy had sprung from his seat and was looming over him, wand raised. Ethan waited until Malfoy opened his mouth before pulling out the paper packet and blowing the powdery contents into the wizard's furious face.

A cloud of fine silvery dust surrounded Malfoy's head just in time for him to inhale a good lungful as he started to speak. He sputtered, coughed and froze like a statue, the tip of his wand held motionless about six inches in front of Ethan's nose.

"Why, thank you." Ethan plucked the wand from Malfoy's rigid fingers and tucked it into an inside jacket pocket. He stood and not-so-gently chucked Malfoy under the chin, closing his gaping mouth with a click. "Don't worry, the spell will wear off in a few minutes. Long enough, hopefully, for you to absorb the notion that I'm neither helpless nor stupid, and that I *really* don't like being threatened."

Ethan left Malfoy standing there while he went into the kitchen and put on the kettle. He toasted two slices of bread and buttered them, spooned instant coffee into a mug. The water boiled just as he took out the sugar. Ethan mixed his coffee, carried the mug and the plate of toast to the counter, pulled up a stool, sat, and looked at his wristwatch. "Seven… six… five…" He took out Malfoy's wand and held it in front of his face, gripping at both ends. "Four… three… two… one."

"YOU INSOLENT MUGGLE, GIVE ME BACK MY WAND THIS INSTANT!!!"

"Temper-temper…" Ethan flexed his hands. The wand bent a little, and Malfoy froze again, temporarily this time. "I'll break it if you don't behave."

Malfoy clenched and unclenched his fists a few times. His face had gone even more pink than before, clashing horribly with his robes, but when he finally spoke his voice was low and steady.

"My wand is of no use to you. Give it back."

"In a minute." Ethan held the wand out of sight behind the counter while he took a sip of his coffee. "Tell me -- have I made my point now?"

"Yes," Malfoy hissed. "Very well. I will not threaten you again."

"And you will take me to Voldemort?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. You may have your wand back when we arrive. But first, I must have my breakfast."

For a moment Malfoy looked as if he might attack after all. Then he spun on his heels, marched back to the armchair and sat down. Ethan gave him a cheery little wave and took a bite of toast.

By the time he finished, Malfoy had regained his normal pale coloring and haughty manner. 

"Are you ready to go?" he demanded.

Ethan spread his arms. "Lead the way."

Malfoy dug into his pocket and produced a finely worked gold pocket watch on a thick, flat chain. He dangled it by the chain in front of Ethan's face like a stage hypnotist. 

"When I count to three," he said, "touch the watch."

Ethan started to ask why, but Malfoy was already counting and ,really, how much harm could it do when Malfoy himself was holding the watch? One had to take a chance sooner or later. So when Malfoy said "Three," Ethan reached out and lightly touched one fingertip to the dial.

There was a sharp, painful tug behind his navel, and the world disappeared in a blinding rush of air.

* * *

A minute later, throwing up his breakfast onto a very fine parquetry floor, Ethan thought Lucius Malfoy might've found a way to kill him without a wand after all. He knelt with his hands braced against the wall in front of him and retched until he thought his insides would fall out, but then it passed and there he was, still alive.

Someone grabbed his collar and hauled him to his feet. Ethan was too dazed to tell who it was until he felt rough hands patting him down and reaching inside his jacket. Malfoy, retrieving his wand. Ethan wished he could throw up on the bastard's shoes, but the opportunity had passed.

"He got your _wand_, Lucius?" Someone appeared to be deeply amused by this. "Oh, I can't wait to hear the details."

"Sod off, Severus," Malfoy growled. "Dobby, why are you just standing there? Clean up this mess immediately."

"Yes, Sir!" a high-pitched voice squealed somewhere down at Ethan's knee level. "Right away, Sir. Dobby is sorry, Sir. Dobby is cleaning up right--"

"In _silence_, Dobby."

The squealed apologies faded to barely audible whimpers. A tiny, twig-limbed creature scurried forward, clutching a scrub brush nearly as big as itself, and began to frantically scrub the vomit-stained floor at Ethan's feet. Every spot the brush touched instantly shined clean. Little pink bubbles floated up from under the bristles and burst, permeating the air with the faint scent of gardenias.

Ethan sidled away from the creature, clutching the wall for support. His legs were still weak and his skin felt clammy, but he was recovered enough to take stock of his surroundings.

He was in a large, candle-lit room that looked as if it should've been on display in the Victoria and Albert museum. There were wrought-iron candelabras and mahogany chairs upholstered in silk brocade. Marquetry tables and porcelain urns. Leather-bound books in glass-fronted cases. Portraits of pale, platinum blond men and women with pointed chins sneered from the walls. Ethan sneered back, just on principle.

There were two occupants in the room besides Ethan and Malfoy, and both of them managed to clash hopelessly with the décor. One was a scrawny young man seated on the floor in front of the fireplace, hunched over with his feet tucked in and his elbows resting on his knees as he pored over a book. He had long, stringy black hair, which he'd tucked inside his collar to keep it out of the way. His face was gaunt and sallow, with sharp cheekbones and a nose about three sizes too big. 

The other… the other wasn't human at all. Ethan gathered his wits with effort and forced himself to be calm, or at least to look calm. He had encountered demons before, but this tall, skeletal figure wasn't like any he'd ever seen or read about. The scaly gray skin was unmistakably reptilian, but the figure's size and color didn't match any of the snake or lizard species Ethan could name. The face was flat and expressionless, with blood-red eyes and a narrow slit for a mouth. The creature was draped in a floor-length robe of emerald-green velvet embroidered with silver snakes. It may have been just a trick of the candlelight, but to Ethan it looked as if some of the snakes were writhing.

"My Lord." Malfoy dropped to one knee, lifted the hem of the snake-creature's robe, and pressed it to his lips. "I have delivered the Muggle as you commanded."

_That's Voldemort?_ The back of Ethan's neck prickled unpleasantly. He didn't like the looks of this reptilian Lord, didn't like the ready way Malfoy groveled before him, didn't like the thought of being "delivered" like a parcel. He'd thought he could control the situation well enough to bargain himself into an advantageous position, but now he wasn't so sure.

"Well done, Lucius." Voldemort's voice was a soft, icy hiss. "You have, of course, confirmed his… abilities?"

Malfoy nodded and rose to his feet. "Your source was correct, My Lord. He can do magic, or something that looks like magic. He… took my wand from me when I tried to attack him."

Under different circumstances, Ethan would've relished the note of enraged humiliation in Malfoy's voice, but now he was too busy worrying about the implications of his words. Had the entire confrontation in Ethan's flat been a test of some sort, a charade designed to discover what he could do? Malfoy's shock and anger were almost certainly genuine, but that could simply mean he hadn't expected Ethan to pass the test...

"You. Muggle." Voldemort's gaze held Ethan frozen in place as effectively as any spell. "Come here."

Ethan's instincts were screaming at him to bolt for the door, but he knew better than to attempt it. Even if he made it out of the room, he'd never leave the house. Ethan took a deep breath. _Stay calm. Don't panic_. They'd brought him here because they wanted something. He could use that. All he had to do was play along and wait for an opportunity.

"My Lord." He crossed the room with a reasonably steady gait, knelt, and kissed the hem of Voldemort's robe just as Malfoy had done. It hadn't been a trick of the light -- those embroidered snakes really did move. He actually _felt_ them slithering against his lips. Ethan made no attempt to disguise his shudder. "How can I serve you?" Was that too much? Ethan sneaked a glance upward. It was difficult, but he thought Voldemort looked pleased. Apparently he was used to excessive groveling. Ethan lowered his head again and kept it lowered until a cold, scaly hand cupped his jaw and forced him to look up.

"I never thought I'd say this about one of your kind," Voldemort said softly, "but it seems you have skills I can use. Serve me well and I will let you live."

So much for promises of wealth and power. "What do you wish done, My Lord?"

"I want you to kill a man." Voldemort's hold tightened painfully, one sharp claw digging into the soft flesh under Ethan's left ear. "He hides behind wards and concealing spells; my magic cannot reach him. But it seems that yours can." He leaned forward until his face was nearly touching Ethan's. His breath was cold and stale, like the air in a crypt. "I want you to kill Albus Dumbledore for me."

Ethan looked up into the glowing red eyes and tried not to blink. "No problem," he said.

"Good." Voldemort released his grip and stepped back, gesturing for Ethan to rise to his feet. "Do it, then."

"Uhm… You mean right now?." Ethan retreated a few quick steps, putting a pricey-looking crystal vase in the line of fire between himself and Voldemort. "I'm afraid it's not that simple. I'll need my books, some supplies, time to prepare..."

"He's stalling, My Lord." The stringy-haired kid finally deigned to look up from his book, mouth curled into a corrosive sneer. "I don't believe he can really do it."

"Of course I can do it!" Ethan snapped. "But we're not talking about some minor parlor trick here. If you wanted me to snuff some random fellow in the street, I could do it in a couple of minutes. But if Dumbledore was that easy to kill, I'm guessing you'd have done it yourselves by now." He returned the kid's sneer, then composed his face into a more respectful expression as he turned back to Voldemort. "I can give you what you want, My Lord. But you'll have to trust me on the details."

Voldemort's response was a series of short, soft hisses. The sound made Ethan's skin creep; it took him several seconds to recognize it as laughter. "Trust a Muggle?" His hand held a wand now, though Ethan hadn't seen him retrieve it "No, I don't think I will. Imperio."

It was like being suddenly immersed in a warm bath. Ethan gave a deep, contented sigh as the tension flowed from his body. He felt weightless, mellow, wonderfully relaxed. He didn't understand why he had been so afraid a few seconds before. Voldemort wasn't at all frightening. He was beautiful, really, with those gleaming red eyes. He was telling Ethan what he wanted done and Ethan was happy to do it, he really was; it was what he'd always wanted to do anyway, he'd just never seen it quite so clearly before...

_Bollocks_, a rebellious little voice murmured in the back of his head. _Why are you letting that snake-faced git order you around?_

_I'm not!_ He wasn't. Lord Voldemort was being perfectly reasonable, after all, and anyway, Ethan didn't want to think about any of this; he just wanted to sink into this warm, cozy feeling and do what he was told.

_You do?_ The little voice, which sounded disconcertingly like Ripper, gave a contemptuous snort. _Since when? And why?_

_Because..._ Ethan's thoughts trailed off into a confused fog. _Because_... He didn't have an answer, and the more he struggled for one, the more that comforting warmth around him receded. Its loss was painful. Ethan whimpered, and the sound of his own voice jarred him back to cold reality. His legs buckled and he had to grab the edge of a nearby table to keep from falling. The feel of the wood digging into his palm was strangely reassuring. Ethan tightened his grip until it started to hurt.

"Don't," he said through clenched teeth, "do that again."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed to angry, glowing slits, and Lucius Malfoy's smirk wavered. Belatedly, it occurred to Ethan that he might've done better to at least pretend to go along with the mind-control spell. He plastered a smile on his face and hoped he looked confident rather than desperate.

"This is completely unnecessary, you know. I told you, I'll do as you ask. But I can't do it if I'm dead, or crippled, or if my mind isn't free to function. You want the old man dead? Then leave me alone and let me get on with it."

"Don't trust him, My Lord." It was the stringy-haired kid again. Ethan was starting to dislike him even more than he disliked Malfoy. "Our cause is not his cause. We can't control him, and we don't know the magic he claims to do. If we let him get on with a spell, how do we know he won't turn it against you?"

"Severus." Voldemort swept across the room to loom over the kid, who put his book aside and rose to his feet in one surprisingly graceful movement. Standing, even with his head bowed, he was as tall as Voldemort. "Are you suggesting that *I* could be harmed by his pathetic Muggle tricks?"

Severus' face turned pasty, but he stood his ground. "You're expecting Dumbledore to be harmed by them."

It was hard to interpret emotions in that reptilian face, but Ethan got the distinct feeling that Voldemort was not pleased with Severus' response. He wasn't the only one getting that impression, either: Malfoy was edging away with the air of a man trying to get out of blast range. Severus stood perfectly still, but a vein in his left temple was twitching.

Then Voldemort laughed again, and the tension in the air dissipated. "Your concern for my welfare does you credit, Severus. Still, it's a risk we must take." He turned to Ethan again. "I want fast results, Muggle. What do you need?"

Ethan licked his lips. "There is something I can try that would work relatively quickly, provided I have the supplies. I need five black tallow candles, some chalk, and three pints of virgin blood, preferably female." 

No one in the room seemed in the least bit startled by this request. Voldemort and Severus both turned to look at Malfoy, who smiled thinly.

"I believe I have a reasonably fresh supply in the dungeon storeroom," he said. "Unless Severus used it all up the last time he was brewing in there. In which case we can always go and fetch more from the village."

Severus raised one black eyebrow and smirked. "There are still female virgins left in the vicinity, Lucius? Knowing your habits, I'm surprised."

Malfoy matched his smirk. "Jealous, Severus?"

"Enough," Voldemort said impatiently. "We're wasting time. Go, Severus. Bring what we need."

Severus bowed and headed for the door. Voldemort followed, pulling the young man to a stop at the threshold. They lingered there for a moment, exchanging whispered words Ethan couldn't make out, then Severus bowed again and left.

He returned about ten minutes later, bearing two small boxes and a large glass bottle on a tray. "Sorry for the delay. You really need to keep your storeroom better organized, Lucius. I had to look in three different cupboards to find the blood."

Malfoy shrugged. "You're the one who's always in there, and you won't let me send a house elf in to clean. If anything's out of place, it's your own damn fault."

"Never mind." Ethan grabbed the tray, wondering how Voldemort put up with this shit. *When I'm a powerful Dark Lord, I'm going to make my minions play nice.* "Is there a room you generally use for things like this? Someplace where you wouldn't mind a mess on the floor?"

Once again, Malfoy was completely unfazed by the request. "We can use the yellow parlor. There's no carpet there, and Dobby can clean the floor afterwards."

The yellow parlor was admirably large and sparsely furnished. Ethan set the tray down on the windowsill and moved all the chairs to the back wall.

"I'm going to summon a Pria Motu demon," he announced. "It's an assassin, and it's not especially choosy about what it kills, so don't hark it off. The handy thing about the Pria Motu is, it only needs the target's name in order to track it down. I assume Albus Dumbledore *is* his real name?" Voldemort nodded. "Good. Let's get started, then."

It was a matter of minutes to draw the pentagram and the appropriate runes, to light the candles at the five points, and to speak the incantation. Ethan kept an eye on his audience as he worked, noting that while Malfoy took great pains to look bored and contemptuous and Voldemort seemed to ignore the proceedings completely, Severus followed every word and movement with a concentrated air that suggested he was committing the whole thing to memory. Ethan made a mental note to place extra wards around his flat at the earliest opportunity, in case a Pria Motu came calling on *him* in the near future. 

He chanted the final words and poured the blood into the center of the pentagram. It bubbled and hissed as it hit, as if the floor was hot. The red stain spread in an unnaturally perfect circle, covering the chalk lines beneath it as it grew. When it reached the points of the star, the candles hissed and flared, sending jets of green sparks shooting to the ceiling. A cloud of green smoke filled the room, and when it cleared the Pria Motu was standing there.

It certainly made for an impressive sight, with its hulking, muscled body, armored skin and ridged skull. Being seven feet tall didn't hurt either. Malfoy swore under his breath, Severus rocked back in his chair, and Voldemort emitted a barely audible hiss. Ethan suspected that none of them had expected him to actually accomplish anything, let alone anything this dramatic. He allowed himself a moment of quiet internal gloating before focusing on the demon before him.

"I have summoned you with fire and innocent blood," he announced, "and bound you according to the rules of your kind. You owe me a death now."

"I owe you a death," the demon agreed. "Give me a name."

For a brief, reckless moment, Ethan wondered what would happen if he pointed to Voldemort and said, "Get that one," but he immediately discarded the thought. The Pria Motu might have managed it, but the chances of Ethan surviving long enough to enjoy the results were too low to make it worth the bother. So he took a deep breath and said, "Albus Dumbledore."

"It will be done." And the demon vanished in a gust of wind that extinguished the candles.

"There." Ethan wiped his hands on his jeans. "Now we wait."

"How exciting," Severus drawled. "Accio *Most Potente Potions*." There was a loud whoosh of air, and the book he'd been reading earlier flew through the open door and smacked into his hand. He opened it and immediately became absorbed again.

Malfoy glared at Ethan with undisguised hostility. "How will we know if that… thing succeeds?"

"The Pria Motu have a tradition of bringing back trophies from their kills." Ethan made a point of directing his explanation to Voldemort rather than Malfoy. "Some body part from the victim, usually. So don't worry, you'll have your proof."

"It is not I who should be worried," Voldemort pointed out.

Ethan licked his lips again. Malfoy sneered.

Minutes ticked by, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of paper as Severus turned a page. Ethan stood by the window, looking out at an impressive if somewhat grotesque topiary maze -- the trees were sculpted into snakes, dragons and assorted mythological monsters -- and concentrated on resisting the desire to pace. He could feel both Voldemort and Malfoy watching him, and he was fairly sure that Malfoy, at least, was hoping for him to fail.

The explosion of green flames in the fireplace made everyone jump, even Severus, who had to fumble to keep from dropping his book. Something landed on the hearth with a dull, heavy thud and rolled forward. As the flames winked out, Ethan could see that the object was a large, cloth-wrapped bundle. Thick green slime seeped through the cloth and oozed across the flagstones. A rancid smell filled the air.

Ethan took a step toward the fireplace, but Severus got there first, pulling up the sleeves of his robe and squatting at the edge of the hearth. He unwrapped the bundle, apparently unbothered either by the smell or the slime that dripped over his hands, and lifted out the contents for everyone else to see.

The Pria Motu's severed head gazed at them with wide, empty eyes. Severus turned it over in his hands, frowning.

"There's something in its mouth." He jammed his fingers between the slack gray lips, pulled out something small and golden, examined it closely in his cupped palm, and abruptly lowered his head. His hair fell forward to hide his face from Voldemort and Malfoy, but Ethan, standing on the other side, saw the corners of his mouth twitch. When he spoke, his voice was perfectly steady.

"It's a sherbet lemon, My Lord."

At any other time, Ethan would've been filled with sincere admiration for Albus Dumbledore. At the moment, however, he was too busy contemplating the merits of pitching himself head first out the window. 

Malfoy didn't even bother trying to pretend he wasn't gloating. "Is that the best you can do, Muggle?"

"No," Ethan said emphatically, once again talking past Malfoy to Voldemort. "It's *not* the best I can do. It is, however, all I could do at a moment's notice, without my usual books and supplies, against an enemy which *you*, from what I understand, have been fighting to a standstill for over a decade. At the risk of stating the obvious, let me point out that if this--" he gestured toward the severed demon head. "--is really Dumbledore's work, then Pria Motu must've gotten pretty up-close and personal with him, past whatever defenses he has in place. Have you ever gotten this close to the old man before?"

Voldemort lifted one clawed, skeletal hand and scratched thoughtfully at his chin. His nails made a rough, sandpapery sound as he dragged them across scaly skin. He gazed at Malfoy, who was still gloating, then at Severus, who was scraping demon slime from the flagstones into a glass vial, and finally at Ethan.

"No," he admitted. "No one in my command has ever gotten this close."

Malfoy's sneer transformed into a highly unattractive pout. "And what good does that do us? The thing got close enough to be killed, that's all."

"But that's not all." Voldemort's voice rose enthusiastically. "The creature got inside Hogwarts, Lucius, possibly even inside Dumbledore's own quarters. Past all the protective spells, past the Antiapparition wards… think of the possibilities! Even if we can't get the old fool himself, we can get at the place he values most. His precious Hogwarts is no longer a safe haven." He reached out to stroke the edge of Ethan's jaw with one long finger. "You've done well, Muggle."

Ethan ducked his head. "I'm honored to be of service, Lord."

"Oh, I'm sure you are." Voldemort sounded amused. "And I'm sure you will be again. Still, it always helps to make sure…" He raised one hand in a beckoning motion.

"Petrificus totalus!" It was Severus' voice. Ethan had almost forgotten about him, focused as he'd been on Voldemort and Malfoy. Now he silently cursed his own carelessness as his muscles stiffened into immobility. He could breathe; he could blink; that was it.

Severus walked to Voldemort's side, tucking his wand back inside his sleeve. His face was composed, his movements perfectly smooth and calm. Voldemort's narrow slit of a mouth curved into something that may have been a fond smile. "Very good, Severus. Do you have the potion?"

"Right here, My Lord." Severus produced a small glass bottle from an inside pocket. He placed it on the sill and dug into another pocket for an oblong black box with a hinged lid that sprang open with a click. Inside the box was a small glass syringe.

Ethan was screaming at the top of his lungs, but the sound refused to make it past his throat. He thrashed inside his own frozen body like a panicked beast in a too-small cage. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the blood racing in his veins. He couldn't twitch a finger.

Severus took the bottle from the sill and removed the stopper. The liquid inside was a pale aquamarine blue. He filled the syringe, squeezed it briefly to get rid of the air bubbles, and rolled up Ethan's left sleeve. There was a quick, sharp sting as the needle slid in, a deeper pain as it slid out a few seconds later. Severus took out his wand again.

"Finite incantatem." 

The paralysis vanished as fast as it had come. Ethan staggered forward.

"What did you--" The words cut off in an agonized howl as every muscle in his body spasmed with pain. Ethan dropped to his knees, then collapsed face forward onto the floor. It felt as if his flesh was trying to tear itself from his bones. He writhed and clawed at the floorboards, whimpering.

He was vaguely aware of hands holding his head, of something being forced into his mouth, of a cold, thick liquid trickling down his throat. It tasted foul, and he gagged and sputtered, but couldn't help swallowing some of it. A few seconds later, the pain began to fade.

For a while, all Ethan could do was lie there and shake. Eventually the trembling stopped, and he rolled over onto his back and sat up. Standing seemed like too ambitious an undertaking so he stayed where he was, staring down at the floor.

Severus stood in front of him. He knew it was Severus because he was wearing scuffed black boots and a plain black robe stained with Pria Motu slime at the hem. Ethan didn't want to be anywhere near him, but moving seemed impossibly difficult; the best he could do was shrink away.

"That was a temporary antidote," Severus said from above him. "You will need another dose in twenty-four hours, and every twenty-four hours after that." 

There was a rustle of cloth as Voldemort came over to stand next to Severus. The snakes on his robe wiggled their forked tongues at Ethan. He closed his eyes so that he wouldn't have to see them, but couldn't close his ears to shut out Voldemort's voice.

"You will go back to your home and collect your belongings. You will leave messages for your family and friends telling them you're going away for a while. Severus will accompany you and bring you back here. Do good work for me, and you will have your antidote every day."

Ethan opened his eyes and looked up. Two gaunt faces looked down at him, human and reptile, both equally cold. "How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"You don't." Severus said calmly. "Feel free to disbelieve. Head off for parts unknown, we won't stop you. Of course, tomorrow, when the pain comes back, you won't know how to find us. We may seek you out again." He smiled thinly. "Or we may not." 

Ethan's legs still felt like jelly, but he climbed to his feet and made himself stand up straight. He wasn't sure why he bothered, really -- pointless displays of pride were not his style -- but it seemed important somehow.

"You didn't need to do that," he said and was pleased at the steadiness of his own voice. "I came here willing to work with you, you know? But have it your way. Let's go."


	5. Chapter 5

The End of the Beginning By Rusalka 

**Chapter 5**

The room looked ordinary enough: a shabby but relatively clean bed-sit above a second-hand robe shop in the poorer end of Diagon Alley. It was furnished with a narrow, sagging bed, a rickety chair, a cracked porcelain wash stand and nothing else -- not even a rug on the floor. The spells permeating its walls, floor and ceiling were subtly woven, undetectable to anyone who didn't specifically look for them -- and only two people had any business knowing enough to look. There were wards against Apparating, and against scrying, and against divination. There were charms against illusions and invisibility spells, charms to keep out various Dark creatures, and one extremely powerful and complex spell that forced any Animagus entering the room into human form. Aside from Hogwarts itself, this was probably the most magically secure place in England. 

None of which made Severus Snape feel any better as let himself into the room and sat down on the bed to wait.

It was a short wait; less than two minutes passed before the lock clicked again and Albus Dumbledore came in, incongruous in a drab gray cloak with a hood and a high collar. With his beard tucked inside the cloak, he was scarcely recognizable as the flamboyant Headmaster of Hogwarts. Certainly any casual observer would be fooled and, as Snape reflected grimly, if there were any non-casual observers hanging about, then he was already stuffed.

"Good evening, Severus." Dumbledore removed his cloak and draped it over the back of the chair. Beneath the cloak he was dressed in his usual style, in iridescent purple robes decorated with tiny phoenixes on the cuffs and hem. He smiled as he sat down, but his eyes were worried. "I trust you're all right?"

"I'm fine," Snape said curtly. It was too early for conversation, and Dumbledore knew that perfectly well, but the old man always insisted on trying to make small talk. Severus Snape did not believe in small talk.

He took out his pocket watch and noted the time, held it up for Dumbledore to see, and put it on the bed next to him. Dumbledore shifted into a more comfortable position in his chair and settled down to wait with the tolerant air of someone indulging a friend's harmless eccentricity. Which was pretty rich coming from Dumbledore, Snape thought sourly. Still, he didn't care how the Headmaster looked at it as long as he followed the routine. Spells could unmask most forms of magical impersonation, but the only way to detect Polyjuice potion was to wait an hour and see if it wore off. So they waited. Snape leafed through a copy of the _Daily Prophet,_ filled with the usual ineffectual dithering about the latest round of Death Eater attacks. Dumbledore chuckled quietly over what appeared to be a well-thumbed issue of _Marvin the Mad Muggle._ Snape's watch duly ticked off the minutes.

A soft chime signaled the end of the hour. Dumbledore shut his comic book and tucked it back inside his robe.

"There, Severus. I'm still me and you're still you. Now will you tell me if you're really all right? You took a great risk yesterday."

Snape clenched his hand around a fold of the bedspread. The cloth felt rough and prickly against his palm. "Seeing as I'm sitting here talking to you instead of floating dead in a sewer somewhere, you don't need to be Headmaster of Hogwarts to figure out that the risk was successfully avoided."

Dumbledore did not react to the rudeness. "I'm grateful to you, Severus. I would not have at all enjoyed having to face that demon without prior warning. As it is, the creature managed to smash my favorite tea set -- you know, the one with the pink daisies on the saucers? A gift from Minerva on my one hundred and twenty-fifth birthday." He pulled a rainbow-colored foil roll from his pocket and tore it open. "Gumdrop?"

"No, thank you." Snape stared at the floor. "I'm--I'm glad I was able to help." 

After Voldemort had sent him to fetch the spell ingredients for Ethan Rayne from the Malfoy storeroom, Snape had ducked int oone of the spare rooms on the way and used the fireplace to alert Dumbledore about the impending attack. There had been no time to be properly stealthy about it; anyone could've walked in on him: Narcissa, Dobby, one of the human servants. It was the most terrifying thing he'd done since that night six month ago, when he'd stood in Dumbledore's office and rolled up his left sleeve to expose the Dark Mark on his arm.

Dumbledore could've killed him for bearing that mark. Killed him, or handed him over to the Ministry, which would've accomplished the same thing in the end. And Snape wouldn't have blamed him, though he hadn't wanted to die. He had said as much to Dumbledore when all other words ran out.

"I deserve it," he'd whispered. "I deserve worse, for what I've done."

And Dumbledore had looked at him with those terrifyingly compassionate eyes and said, "Well, then, Severus. I shall endeavor to give you what you deserve."

Six months later, Snape was starting to wonder if anyone really deserved his life. He'd thought that he'd found a way out when he went to Dumbledore. In the weeks before his defection, as he struggled to work up his nerve and searched for an opportunity to slip away unnoticed, he'd clung to that one life-line of a thought -- he would go to Dumbledore, and Dumbledore would get him out. Then he went to Dumbledore and found himself in deeper than ever before. And now there was no rescue to hope for, no one he could go to and say, "Please, Sir, I don't want to do this anymore." Sometimes, on particularly bad days, Snape considered the fact that this war had already dragged on for over a decade, and could easily drag on for decades longer. On days like that, he was almost tempted to confess the whole thing to Voldemort just to get it all over with. 

"Severus?" Dumbledore's gently insistent voice drew Snape out of his incipient brooding fit. He shook his head apologetically as he realized that the Headmaster was waiting for some sort of response from him.

"I'm sorry, Sir, you were saying something?"

"I was just wondering," Dumbledore said softly, "what happened after Voldemort discovered that Mr. Rayne's attack had failed."

"Yes, of course. Sorry." Snape gathered his thoughts with an effort and gave what he hoped was a calm, straightforward description of everything that had happened at Malfoy Manor. As always, he found that his own actions came across much worse in the telling than they had in the doing. He disliked and distrusted Ethan Rayne. It had been far too easy to inject poison into the man's blood and to convince himself he was only doing what was necessary. Easy to ignore another man's terror in favor of his own, with Voldemort there to track his every move. But here, in relative safety, pinned by Dumbledore's nonjudgmental gaze, he felt soiled and cowardly. Not so much because of what he'd done -- it _had_ been necessary, no question about that -- but because of what he'd failed to feel while he did it. He finished his tale in a breathless rush of words, never looking Dumbledore in the eye.

When he finished, Dumbledore slowly unwrapped another gumdrop, popped it into his mouth, and chewed for a few seconds before asking, "What did you give him?"

"A variation on the Convulsing Draught." Snape squashed the impulse to describe the ingredients. "I developed it last year -- before I came to you." It seemed important to clarify that for some reason. Snape dug through his pockets, eventually producing a small glass bottle and several neatly folded sheets of parchment. "I have a sample here. And the instructions."

"Excellent." Dumbledore put the bottle into a pouch at his belt and sat back to study the parchments. His eyes narrowed and his lips thinned -- a reaction to the twenty-seven illegal ingredients on the list, no doubt -- but all he said was, "This will take a while to reproduce."

"Months, I would expect." Snape saw no reason for false modesty under the circumstances. Professor Girolamo at Hogwarts was competent enough, and Circe Culpepper at the Ministry was almost brilliant, but neither one of them would have any experience working with these methods and ingredients. Snape had studied the techniques under Voldemort's own tutelage after he first took the Mark, and it had taken him ten weeks before he was confident enough to work on his own. Voldemort had praised him for his quickness. He had glowed with pride for days.

"I'm afraid you're right." Dumbledore neatly refolded the parchment sheets and tucked them between the pages of his comic book. "Is there a permanent antidote?"

"No," Snape said. Dumbledore just sat there and looked at him. "But I'll find one."

"I will trust in your abilities, Severus." Dumbledore sighed. "Mr. Rayne's current predicament is, at least partially, my responsibility. I must rely on you to remedy my own failure."

Snape was suddenly glad he had refused a gumdrop earlier; he would've choked on it now. "_Your_ responsibility? Sir--" For a moment, all he could do was sputter. "You gave Rayne a chance to join you; he refused. He _wanted_ to work for Voldemort, I'm sure of it. He was happy enough to kill you -- thought he could get something out of it." There had been a sly, calculating look in Rayne's eyes the whole time he was groveling at the Dark Lord's feet. If Snape had recognized it, Voldemort would have too. "He may not like the mess he's in now, but he got into it all on his own."

"Perhaps he did." Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Perhaps he came to Voldemort of his own free will and got what he deserved. But a man is entitled to change his mind, wouldn't you say?"

Snape winced. "Yes, Sir. But it's still his responsibility, not yours."

"I should've kept a better watch on him. I should've warned him. I knew there was a good chance Voldemort would come after him, but I never thought it would happen so quickly… and I expected Mr. Giles to be in more immediate danger."

"It was a reasonable assumption," Snape said. "This Giles is working for you now; any number of people know about him. But how many people know about Rayne?"

"That's the big question, isn't it?" Dumbledore's eyes grew somber. "Most of the people in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement know that James Potter and Alastor Moody brought two Muggles in for questioning three nights ago, and that I was summoned to speak with them. But no one is supposed to know anything more than that -- except for James and Alastor."

"And anyone they may have told."

Dumbledore's frown deepened. "I'm certain they both know better than that."

"I'm not." Snape scowled. "Oh, Moody won't have told anyone, I'll give you that. But Potter will have told his wife. And his friends. And we know, don't we, Headmaster, what his friends are capable of?"

"Severus." A trace of weariness began to creep into Dumbledore's paternal manner. "I know your feelings on this matter, but--"

"My feelings are not the issue here!" Snape tried desperately to stay calm, but he could hear his voice rising sharply along with his temper. "I'm talking about facts, Headmaster, facts we're both well aware of. Someone told Voldemort about Rayne, and if it wasn't Potter or Moody, then it had to be someone close to them. Someone they'd trust with the information. In Moody's case that means nobody. In Potter's case, there are four people. You can't ignore this, Headmaster, you mustn't, there's too much at stake! I know you've always dismissed my views in this matter, I know you like to trust people, I know Potter and his friends are your favorite pet Gryffindors--"

"That's quite enough, Severus," Dumbledore said calmly. "Please sit down."

Snape didn't remember getting up, but now he realized that he was standing in the middle of the room, looming over Dumbledore's chair in a manner that probably appeared threatening, though Dumbledore himself didn't look in the least bit threatened. Snape took a step back, feeling his face grow hot. 

"I have never dismissed your views," Dumbledore continued in the same tone, "and I'm not going to start now. I will investigate this."

"Investigate. Of course." Snape stomped over to the bed and sat back down. There was a dark sweat-stain on the bedspread from where he'd gripped it earlier. Snape wiped his hands down the front of his robe. His face still felt hot, and he knew he must look blotchy and undignified. Potter and his cronies always did that to him. He wanted to change the subject or, failing that, to just shut up, but the words kept spilling out. "You mean you will ask them about it and then take their word as gospel. As you always have."

"I don't think I'm quite as gullible as all that." Dumbledore smiled. "Why, to this day, James Potter swears that he is not responsible for the exploding éclairs at his fifth-year Halloween feast, and to this day I don't believe him. I hope I can be equally discerning in matters of life and death."

"I hope so too," Snape said shortly. He didn't believe it for a second. He was quite certain about who the traitor had to be, but he knew better than to make the accusation without proof. Sirius Black could march down Diagon Alley at high noon wearing Death Eater robes and firing Unforgivables at random pedestrians, and everyone would laugh and say what a charming joke it was. Not even Dumbledore was willing to look past that grinning façade, not even when his own life might be at stake. So Snape kept his mouth shut and grimly resolved to get proof before it was too late.

Dumbledore, in the meantime, was still harping on Rayne. "You say he is being held in Malfoy Manor?"

Snape nodded. "Voldemort is being very secretive about it. Only Malfoy and I know what's going on." He didn't bother pointing out the obvious implication of this -- any attempt to rescue Rayne would tell Voldemort that either Snape or Malfoy had betrayed him. Knowing the Dark Lord, he would likely resolve the uncertainty by killing both of them.

"I see." Dumbledore looked grave. "This will require some careful planning. In any case, there's nothing to be done until we have the antidote."

No need to speak the implications of that, either: the only person likely to come up with an antidote was Snape himself. He could keep himself safe -- as safe as he ever was these days, anyhow -- simply by postponing the discovery. Snape considered the thought and found that he wasn't in the least bit tempted. It wasn't courage or nobility; Snape didn't want to die, and he didn't give a damn what happened to Ethan Rayne. But he had known, when he agreed to spy, that none of this was for his benefit. He was performing a penance, and a penance wasn't something you got to pick and choose, it was something you accepted and endured. Snape hated every crawling moment of it, but he never considered stopping.

"I will get to work on it right away." He stood and collected his belongings. His hands didn't shake at all. 

Dumbledore stood, too, and draped the gray cloak around himself again. The whole room suddenly seemed drab and colorless. "Take care, Severus."

He always said that. "Are you all right?" when they met, and "Take care" when they parted. Stock phrases, spoken as if they meant something. Snape never quite knew what to say in return. Usually, he just grunted something unintelligible and left as quickly as possible. Today, for some reason he couldn't quite articulate, he found himself lingering by the door.

"I'm sorry about your tea set, Sir." He remembered it: a hideous, flowery, gilt-edged thing. Remembered clutching a cup with shaking, bloodstained fingers as he poured out his confession to Dumbledore six months ago.

Dumbledore shrugged. The gray cloak made him look very old and very tired. "I was able to fix it," he said. "A few Reparo spells was all it took. But it's never the same, is it? No matter how well you fix something, you always remember that you've seen it broken. Every time I use it now, I'll be looking for the cracks."

"I'm sorry," Snape repeated. He didn't know how to respond to philosophical musings about tea sets any more than he knew how to respond to admonitions to take care. So he muttered a hasty good-bye and fled back to Malfoy Manor, where all the people were scum, but at least he knew how to talk to them.


	6. Chapter 6

The End of the Beginning by Mariner 

**Chapter 6**  
  
**July 2, 1981**  
  


Giles always found himself glowing with a certain degree of professorial pride when he watched Lily Potter cast a spell. Currently, she was seated cross-legged on the floor, painting a complicated sequence of runes on a circular stone tablet. She had a habit of squinting and sticking her tongue out of the corner of her mouth whenever she was concentrating. It made her look absurdly young, a schoolgirl poring over homework. 

Next to Lily, Tobias McKinnon loomed like a small, bearded mountain. The little paintbrush he'd made from a twig of holly and a lock of his own hair looked like a toothpick in his hand, but the runes he drew were perfectly neat and proportioned. Next to him, Peter Pettigrew scrunched up his face in concentration as he dipped his own brush into his ink bowl. Peter's runes were always a little lopsided, but he made up for it by brewing a particularly potent magical ink.

These three were the only ones left of the group that Giles had been introduced to three weeks before, the only ones who had demonstrated any talent for the brand of magic Giles was teaching. The rest had all drifted away, a few at a time, as their repeated efforts produced no results. Sirius Black had been the last to go -- he seemed to have trouble grasping the concept that there was something he just couldn't do no matter how much he applied himself -- though he and Remus Lupin still showed up from time to time to keep James and Harry company while Lily and the others did their work. The gatherings had moved to the Potters' house after the first week, and usually ended with everyone sprawled around the living room, eating take-away and playing games with exploding cards and animated chess pieces. It was the first time in a long while that Giles had anything resembling an active social life, however odd. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed it.

"All done." Lily put down her brush and held her tablet up for inspection. "Want to check it over before I activate it?"

Giles shook his head. "You got it right the last ten tries, I'm sure you have it right this time, too. In fact, why don't you check Tobias and Peter's work yourself while your hardworking instructor has a beer? It'll be good practice for you."

"Teacher's pet," Peter teased in a sing-song voice. Lily cuffed him on the back of the head, and he stuck out his tongue at her.

They were making ward stones; had been making them in mass quantities for two weeks now, at Albus Dumbledore's request. Giles had no idea what Dumbledore was trying to protect, didn't even know if it was many small places or one very large one. He'd pointed out that they had no way of knowing if these wards would be of any use against wizardry, but Dumbledore had smiled cheerily and said, "Well, they won't do any harm, will they? And at the very least, they make nice decorative accents." Giles couldn't really argue with that. Besides, the same technique could be adapted to many other kinds of spells, which Giles put to use whenever ward stones grew too boring.

Giles left Lily, Peter and Tobias to compare their tablets and wandered into the kitchen, where a harassed-looking James was attempting to feed strained carrots to an unwilling Harry.

"Oh, come on, you liked it the last time!" James lifted the bright red baby spoon high in the air and swooped it down toward his son's waiting mouth. "Here comes the Quaffle, into the goal hoop -- score! Oh, bugger." Harry had shut his mouth at the last possible moment, and now had orange mush spattered liberally on his chin and nose, and dripping onto his bib. James put down the spoon and reached for a napkin.

"Maybe he's going to be a goalie when he grows up," Giles suggested.

"Keeper," James corrected automatically. "And that's assuming he lives to grow up, which I wouldn't bet on right now. Come on, Harry, just try it. It's tasty, see?" He took a spoonful himself. "Mmm, yummy!"

Giles took a bottle of lager from the fridge and twisted the cap off. "How bad is it, really?"

James smacked his lips judiciously. "Better than the peas, but not nearly as good as the bananas."

Giles leaned against the counter and sipped his lager as he watched James desperately making funny faces at Harry. He wondered what Ethan would've had to say about such a scene. Something snide and cynical, no doubt. Something that would make Giles laugh and feel appalled at the same time. Something Giles would never get to hear because Ethan, apparently, had set out for greener pastures. Two days after their last, uncomfortable conversation in Giles' flat, there had been a terse note in Giles' mailbox informing him that Ethan was leaving the country for a while. A week later came a postcard from Menton. Since then, nothing. Giles tried not to take it personally. They had drifted apart nearly a decade ago. The reunion on Giles' birthday was obviously just a passing impulse on Ethan's part. Still, it would've been nice to bring him along, introduce him to everyone, maybe convince him that he liked nice people after all...

A loud clatter distracted him from his musings. Harry had managed to slap the spoon from his father's hand and onto the floor. James pulled out his wand, looking as if he was contemplating turning his firstborn into a potted plant, but in the end he only pointed it to the floor and muttered a cleaning spell.

"Maybe," said Giles, "it's time to summon Lily."

James glowered. "No way. Look, we're bigger than him, and we've got him outnumbered. Help me, will you?"

Giles look down at his nice pale-blue shirt which, he suspected, would not be at all improved by the addition of carrot stains. "I'm not sure if that's a good--"

"Look, just provide a distraction, all right? You can do it from a distance."

"Uhm… I suppose I can try." Giles put his bottle down on the counter and contemplated possible ways he might distract a baby from a distance. Finally he folded his hands together and held them up to make a shadow on the kitchen wall. "Look, Harry, it's a dog. Woof." He wiggled his thumbs, and the shadow-dog wiggled its ears.

"Pafoo!" Harry yelled gleefully. To him, all dogs were called Padfoot.

"That's right." Giles made the dog bob up and down, twitch its nose, and open its mouth. "Who is it?"

"Pafmmmph!" Harry was muffled in mid-answer by a mouthful of carrots. He looked indignant but, nevertheless, swallowed most of it.

"Hah!" James looked triumphant. "I knew we could do it! Thanks, Giles."

"My pleasure."

"Speaking of Padfoot…" James looked over his shoulder toward the living room. "Have Sirius and Remus turned up yet?"

"Not yet."

"Ah." A brief shadow of worry flitted across James' face, so quick Giles would never had noticed if he hadn't been expecting it. "Well, they'll show up when they show up. How about another bite, Harry?"

Harry had apparently decided that he liked carrots after all, because he gave no more trouble as James continued to feed him. Giles sat back and observed the proceedings, sipping his drink and wrestling with the curiosity that was tempting him to ask questions about Sirius and Remus and what exactly they did for a living.

It was an intriguing mystery. Giles knew that James, Alastor Moody and Anita McKinnon were Aurors, which was something like the wizarding equivalent of an anti-terrorist police squad. He knew that Tobias practiced law at Lincoln's Inn, that Peter was apprenticed to an apothecary in Diagon Alley, and that Lily was an independent researcher consulting for the Department of Experimental Charms. Only Sirius and Remus had not admitted to any occupation. Yet they were clearly doing _something_, something that caused their friends to fidget and fret and throw worried glances at the door. They also tended to show up with mysterious injuries, though Giles wasn't sure if that was a result of their work, or of that insane flying motorbike of Sirus'.

Once, Giles had hazarded a question, using Sirius' broken arm as an excuse. Sirius had laughed and said, "I'd tell you about it, but then I'd have to kill you" in a dramatically sinister voice. Since there was at least some chance that it might be true, Giles didn't press the point. But it didn't stop him from being curious.

He finished his beer and wandered back into the living room to discover that Lily had approved Peter and Toby's runes. They performed the incantation together, and Giles watched with approval as the spell took shape, first as a faintly luminous cloud swirling in the center of the room, then a brightly glowing, well-defined pattern that sank into the three tablets and snapped into place with an almost audible click. As usual, Lily's ward was noticeably the strongest of the three. She was by far the most gifted witch Giles had ever observed, channeling magical energy as naturally as she breathed. It seemed incredible that she had lived over twenty years without becoming aware of her ability; but Giles supposed that any past signs would've been seen as manifestations of her wizarding talent.

The roar of an engine outside signaled the arrival of Sirius and Remus. The air in the room seemed to lighten suddenly as people who had been pretending to be at ease all evening finally let go of their tension and relaxed for real. Unfortunately, the relaxation didn't last long. It was obvious almost from the moment they came in that something was badly off between Sirius and Remus.

Sirius was sporting singed eyebrows and a truly spectacular black eye. Remus' left arm was bandaged from wrist to elbow. Giles had seen them in worse shape before and knew that the injuries were no real cause for concern. The forced smiles with which they greeted Lily and the way they avoided looking at each other were an entirely different matter.

It was a long and awkward dinner. Sirius and Remus contrived to sit at opposite ends of the table, where Sirius glared and brooded at stabbed at his food as if he had a grudge against it while Remus, in a near-perfect imitation of his usual placid manner, made small talk with Lily about some antique spell books he'd found in a Muggle shop on Charing Cross Road. Harry, sensitive to the mood of the adults around him, became fretful and noisy. Lily took him upstairs as soon as dinner was over and did not come down again. Shortly afterwards, Tobias departed with some barely-convincing excuse about meeting Anita for coffee after her shift. Giles was just trying to come up with an excuse of his own when Peter gave a highly unconvincing yawn, following by an equally unconvincing start as he looked at his watch.

"Good grief, is that the time? I really need to get going, hard day at work tomorrow and all that. Giles, do you want to walk out to the Knight Bus with me?"

"Might as well." Giles felt a momentary pang for James, who had no pretext for escaping his own house, but decided there was nothing he could do in any case. However much he liked these people, he was still a relative stranger to them and in no position to help mediate quarrels.

He and Peter collected their jackets and ambled outside. The evening was cool and clear, with the remnants of a spectacular sunset fading in the distance. The Potters' front garden smelled of fresh-cut grass. Sirius' bike was parked at an angle at the edge of the footpath, front tire mashing one of Lily's rosebushes -- a surefire indicator of just how agitated its rider had been. Giles looked back over his shoulder at the house.

"Do they get like this often?"

"No." Peter clenched his hands and shoved them into his pockets. "I have no idea what that's all about. I haven't seen Remus this angry since…" He winced and ducked his head. "Not since we were at school."

"Remus?" Giles was surprised. "I thought it was Sirius who seemed angry."

"Nah, he's just worried." A wry note crept into Peter's voice. "When Sirius is angry, you'll hear about it. When Sirius is angry, people in China get to hear about it. With Remus, you'll never know unless you know what to look for." He sighed. "Well, whatever it is, it's probably Sirius' fault. Hopefully he'll apologize and it will all blow over in a couple of days."

A week later, at James' twenty-second birthday celebration, it hadn't blown over yet.

It was not a very comfortable party. Oh, there was laughter and alcohol aplenty, but Giles thought there was a desperate edge to it, as if everyone present was determined to have fun or die trying. There had been some sort of a clash between Aurors and Death Eaters three days before. Apparently, it had gone unusually well, since all the Aurors had survived the experience, but there had been a number of close calls. Alastor Moody had three new scars, Anita McKinnon was wearing a hat because most of her hair had been burnt off, and James' hands were swathed in bandages while he "waited for the skin to grow back." Lily had to spoon-feed him his share of the cake and while she made light of it, offering to lend him Harry's bib and high chair, there was no disguising the strain in her voice or the worry in her eyes.

After an hour of this, Giles was seized with an irresistible desire for silence, fresh air and a cigarette. He wandered out onto the back porch, then down into the garden, and followed a winding little footpath around a corner of the house. It was relatively quiet there, only faint traces of music and voices drifting out from inside. Giles leaned against a tree, lit up, and was just starting to relax when he heard the back door slam. Footsteps stomped rapidly across the porch. Giles recognized the heavy tread of Sirius' motorcycle boots even before he heard his voice.

"--Said I was sorry about a million times, Moony, how long am I supposed to grovel before you stop avoiding me?"

"I wasn't avoiding you." Remus' voice clearly indicated that he'd had this conversation before and was resigned to keep having it for the foreseeable future. "I was trying to have a conversation with Circe. And I never asked you to grovel, I asked you to drop the subject."

"Yeah, 'cos that always works so well." More stomping. Apparently, Sirius was pacing the porch. There was no sound at all from Remus. Giles, well aware that he should either step forward and declare his presence or retreat out of hearing range, stayed where he was. After a few more rounds of pacing, he heard Sirius sigh.

"Look, I was wrong, all right? I shouldn't have volunteered us without asking you first. But you've never balked at a mission before, so how was I supposed to know you'd dig your heels in on that one? I still don't see why it's such a big deal."

"Don't you?" Remus asked quietly. 

Sirius didn't answer that right away. He had stopped pacing and was now leaning on the porch railing. Giles could see his long, shaggy-haired shadow on the flower bed below. The shadow fidgeted and scuffed its feet.

"You don't know these people, Moony. You don't owe them anything."

"And I owe Albus everything. I know. I hated to refuse him. But we all have limits, Sirius, and this is mine. I will not spy on my kind."

"Your kind?" Sirius gave an incredulous laugh and smacked his hands against the railing, which creaked in protest. "We're talking about Death Eaters here. Traitors and murderers. Just because they have the same disease as you do doesn't make them your kind!"

More silence. More fidgeting from shadow Sirius. "Shit. Look, I--"

"I'm going to go for a walk now." The steps creaked faintly, and Remus came into sight on the footpath. For a moment Giles thought he was caught, but apparently luck was with him, because Remus turned and stalked off in the opposite direction with quick, long strides, never looking behind him.

"We're your kind, Moony!" Sirius ran down the steps too, but made no attempt to follow his friend any further. He stood on the path for a long time, staring in the direction Remus had gone, one hand absently plucking the leaves from an innocent hydrangea bush. Giles was just starting to wonder if he could get away with sneaking around to the front door without being heard, when Sirius spoke again. "For fuck's sake, Giles, stop lurking. You aren't any good at it; that cigarette reeks."

"Sorry." Giles wandered over to stand next to Sirius on the path. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop."

"Yes, you did."

"All right, maybe I did." Giles took another unrepentant drag off his reeking cigarette. "But if you really didn't want me to overhear, you would've said something sooner."

"Amazingly enough, I only noticed you there a moment ago." Sirius scowled. "Which only goes to prove that my brain's not working up to par tonight. No wonder I can't get my foot out of my mouth." 

"Happens to the best of us," Giles said. 

Sirius rubbed the back of his neck. "You shouldn't smoke those things, you know. They'll kill you."

"As opposed to flying motorbikes, super-powerful evil wizards and, uhm, doing whatever it is you and Remus do for a living?"

That actually got a laugh out of Sirius. "Yeah, as opposed to that. But hey, at least I'll smell good when I die."

"Yes, yes, I can take a hint." Giles dropped the cigarette and ground it out with his shoe. "So how about being friends with a werewolf? How likely is that to get you killed?"

"I don't know," Sirius said lightly. "Why do you ask?"

It would've been a perfectly convincing performance is he didn't stand so suddenly, uncharacteristically still as he said it. Giles considered pretending to believe him, but it seemed a shame to back down having come this far.

"Remus was noticeably affected the two times I demonstrated a spell with aconite as a component. He was ill the day of the last full moon -- worse than usual, I mean. And, of course, the conversation you two had just now… I wasn't sure, but I thought I'd take a shot in the dark. Feel free to laugh in my face if I'm wrong."

Sirius did not laugh. "I keep forgetting," he said thoughtfully, "that you're not a regular Muggle. I'm impressed. It took James and Peter and me over a year to work it out. Of course, we were twelve at the time. So… are you going to have a problem with this?"

"Am I supposed to?"

"No!" Sirius snarled so furiously that Giles automatically took a step back. "You fucking well aren't."

"Then I won't."

"All right, then." Sirius plastered a resolute smile on his face. "End of discussion. Let's go and make James open his presents."


	7. Chapter 7

The End of the Beginning by Mariner 

**Chapter 7**

Ethan Rayne had always known that he was going to come to a bad end. People who had fun in life usually did, unless they gave it up and went all virtuous and respectable, like Ripper with his prissy haircut and his tweed. Ethan had no intention of ever sinking that low, so he had resigned himself to the consequences and devoted his efforts to ensuring that the journey to his inevitable messy death and unpleasant afterlife should be as long and as enjoyable as possible. And where did all his efforts get him? Trapped in a luxurious bedroom suite, staving off the death in his veins by doing magical slave-work for a madman, and having no fun at all. Life just wasn't fair.

He didn't know how long he'd been locked up. He'd lost count somewhere after the first week, and he refused to do anything as cliché as making scratches on the walls to mark the days. Besides, the cringing house elf that delivered his meals would probably remove the scratches the same way he removed anything else he considered messy or unsightly. No one came to see Ethan except Malfoy and Snape. Voldemort had not appeared again, apparently preferring to give his orders through his lackeys. It hardly seemed worth the bother anyway, since the orders were always the same: find a way to kill Albus Dumbledore, or else, with the "else" part being invariably protracted and painful. Ethan had tried three more demon summonings and one elemental spell that was supposed to set its target on fire. He was particularly proud of that last one -- it had originally been designed as a line-of-sight spell, and he had spent several intense days modifying it to target a specified set of coordinates instead. Ethan thought it a remarkably clever bit of work, spoiled only by the fact that after it was over, Dumbledore was still alive and kicking.

Now Ethan felt a growing sense of desperation as he sat at the desk poring over his books. He was running out of ideas, and Voldemort, according to Malfoy, was running out of patience. Ethan didn't know how many more failures he'd be able to get away with it, and he didn't want to know what would happen when Voldemort decided he'd had enough. He'd spent the past four days paging through one yellowed, brittle-paged grimoire after another, until his eyes felt full of sand and his dreams came in Greek, Coptic and Sumerian, but no brilliant new ideas had presented themselves.

The lock on the door clicked. Ethan clapped his book shut and slid his chair back from the desk just as Severus Snape walked in, carrying a thick leather-bound folder under one arm. He looked sour and ill-tempered -- in other words, no different than usual. He pulled over a chair and sat, opened the folder, and shoved it under Ethan's nose.

"Do you know what these are?"

"Hello to you, too." Ethan took the folder from Snape and laid it across his lap. He recognized the drawings inside immediately: they were copies of a Celtic protection spell he and Giles had researched together over a decade ago.

"Where did you get these?" Ethan schooled his face into an impassive expression and his voice into a light, casual tone. The drawings were done in an unfamiliar hand, on parchment rather than paper. They could've been acquired through any number of means, many of them quite harmless.

"That's none of your concern." Snape's expression grew even more unpleasant, but no more revealing. Ethan wished it had been Malfoy who came in with the drawings -- his face was generally easier to read. "Just tell me what they are."

Ethan considered lying, just on principle, but there was always a chance that they already knew and this was a test. "It's a ward. You draw it on a stone or clay tablet, place the tablet over a door, and it protects the space inside from certain kinds of dark magic."

"How do you disarm it?"

"Remove the tablet. Or break it. Or wipe it clean."

"And if that's not an option?"

"Why isn't it?" Ethan asked. Snape glared at him.

"I'm asking the questions here."

"Yes, yes, and you're being very manly about it." Ethan rolled his eyes. "If you can't physically remove the ward, you'll need to disarm it. Drain the magic out."

"How?"

Ethan decided to risk a plausible lie. "There's no standard counterspell that I know of. But I could work one out, given time. And the proper supplies, of course."

Snape's black eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What supplies?"

"Well, a stone tablet to start with." Ethan did his best to look honest and reasonable. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you that the best way to research a counterspell is to cast the original spell first. If I can actually create a ward, then I can experiment on it until I find a way to disarm the pattern." He hesitated, wondering how much he could get away with here. "The tablet would be just the beginning, of course. There's also the matter of making the ink… I don't know exactly what all the ingredients are--"

"We can find out," Snape said in a flat voice. Ethan nodded.

"And the incantation?"

"That, too."

"All right, then. Uhm…" Ethan found that his hands were sweating. He resisted the urge to wipe them on his trousers. "I'm glad we've got that settled. Fetch me what I need, and I'll get on with it, shall I?"

Snape got up from his chair and stood looming over Ethan, arms folded across his chest. It was a habitual pose he adopted whenever he was trying to appear especially menacing. Ethan found it worked very well, especially combined with the swirling black robes and the glittery black eyes. A bit over-dramatic, perhaps, and more suited to a much older man, but it certainly got the message across. "I would advise you to show some results this time, Muggle. Lord Voldemort is becoming impatient with your repeated failures."

"They are not failures!" Ethan said defensively. "Every single one of my spells has worked as advertised. If they don't always produce the desired results… well, I'm not the one who chooses the targets now, am I?"

"Would you care to try that explanation on Lord Voldemort?" Snape's voice was icy. Ethan bit his lip and lowered his eyes.

"No," he said after a moment.

"Then I suggest you start producing the desired results." He raised one eyebrow expectantly, as if daring Ethan to voice another objection, but Ethan remained silent. After a while, Snape gave a quick, satisfied nod and reached into his pocket to pull out the small glass bottle in which he always brought Ethan's daily dose of potion. Ethan reached for it, but Snape stepped back. "Don't take it straight away," he said. "Wait until you start feeling the symptoms again. Better yet, wait as long as you can stand. Note when the symptoms start, and how quickly they progress. The more details you can give, the better."

Now it was Ethan's turn to lift his eyebrows and look suspicious. "Why?"

"Because I said so."

"And if I don't?"

Snape's bony shoulders lifted and fell in a gesture that could've been a shrug, or a nervous twitch, or an attempt to make his robes drape more elegantly. "Then you don't. Things will go on as they are now."

"And if I do this, things will change?" Ethan's hands ached. He looked down and realized that he was clutching the edges of the folder in a white-knuckled grip. It took several seconds of concentration to get his fingers to relax; when he did, his nails left little half-moon indentations in the leather. "In what way?"

Snape sneered. It wasn't quite a Malfoy level sneer, but it made up in malevolence what it lacked in natural superiority. "I'm not in the habit of explaining myself to imprisoned Muggles." He slammed the bottle down onto the desk in front of Ethan. "You have your instructions. Follow them or don't, it makes no difference to me."

He was lying. Ethan had devoted a great deal of time and effort to studying his captors, learning to decode nuances of gesture and voice and facial expression. Snape was harder to read than Malfoy, but Ethan was pretty certain he knew what he was seeing. Severus Snape was afraid. Terrified, in fact. 

Ethan picked up the bottle, turned it over in his hands a couple of times, and put it down again. 

"All right," he said. "I'll do it."

Snape did not relax. If anything, the tension in his posture seemed to increase. For a moment he looked as if he was about to say something, but then he only nodded and stalked from the room in a dramatic swirl of black cloth.

Ethan sat staring at the door and tried to collect his jumbled thoughts. Snape's actions had been unexpected, to say the least. What was the bastard up to? Something Voldemort wouldn't like, apparently, but that didn't mean it would do Ethan any good... How did they get those drawings? If not from Giles, then from somebody close to Giles… Snape said they could get more information as they needed it... seemed quite certain of it, the slimy little git… maybe one of those "nice people" Ripper had hooked up with wasn't quite so nice after all... Maybe he should drink his potion right away, just to spite Snape… but if the git was trying to help… why would he help? Maybe it was all a trick… maybe they had Giles locked up somewhere and they weren't telling him… Malfoy would've said something, just to gloat, but you never could tell with Snape... what was the story with that potion...

"Fuck!" Ethan stood up so fast he nearly knocked his chair over, and began to pace the room. "Concentrate, damn it, one thing at a time…" Talking aloud to himself was probably not a good sign, but the sound of his own voice did help him focus. Snape's potion was one problem. Giles' spell was another. One thing at a time. Right. The potion.

Ethan picked up the bottle and examined it. It looked the same as always: square shape, cobalt blue glass, no marks or labels of any kind. He pulled out the stopper and sniffed. The thick, bitter smell made his eyes water, but Ethan couldn't tell if it was different from the last time. "Oh, to hell with it." He replaced the stopper and placed the bottle back on the desk. There was no point in trying to guess when he had no information, and only one way to find out. He would do as Snape asked... at least this once.

"All right, that's one problem down." That left the issue of the ward spell. The fact that Voldemort had it in the first place was cause to worry, but Ethan resolved to put it out of his mind. There was nothing he could do about Giles' situation. He had to deal with his own first, and here was a chance to finally accomplish something.

Ethan walked over to the bed, knelt, and stuck one hand under the mattress. Some days before, he had torn a slit in the underside to make a hiding place. Now he reached in there, scattering goose feathers onto the floor, and pulled out the small, handkerchief-wrapped bundle that contained his treasures.

Three lumpy candle stubs, melted down to almost nothing, but with enough wick still left to burn for a few minutes. Little pinches of herbs, wrapped in scraps of parchment. A glass vial with just a few drops of virgin's blood congealing at the bottom. Remnants of past spells, carefully tucked away for future use. Not enough yet to actually do anything with, but if could just get his hands on a few more ingredients… He could claim he needed them for research. Neither Voldemort nor Malfoy would know any better. Snape might -- he actually paid attention to the details of what Ethan did when he worked magic -- but Snape, it seemed, had his own agenda, which meant he could be bargained with in an emergency. 

Ethan sorted through the bundle, taking stock of what he had, then re-wrapped it and tucked it back inside the mattress. Then he gathered up the feathers that had fallen on the floor and stuffed them inside the pillowcase, where he hoped they wouldn't look too suspicious if a conscientious house elf happened to find them. Returning to the desk, he took some parchment and a quill from a drawer and began to write up a list of what he still needed. It was a dauntingly long list, but Ethan Rayne refused to be daunted. For the first time in weeks, he could see a way out. All he had to do was lie convincingly enough.

* * *

Snape did not look pleased when he read the list the next day.

"You really need _all_ of these things?"

"Yes," Ethan said firmly. "I'm trying to find a counterspell that may not even exist. I need to experiment. Don't tell me this is going to strain the Malfoy purse?"

Snape's lips pressed together into a thin, pale line. He folded the list into a neat square and pocketed it without comment. 

"Did you do as I asked yesterday?" he demanded.

"Yes." Ethan handed him the empty potion bottle and another piece of parchment. Having decided to be helpful, he had dutifully catalogued his symptoms up to the time when he drank the antidote and after, until the pain had receded enough to allow him to hold a quill again. "So is there any chance of you telling me what this is all about?"

"No." Snape put the notes away without looking at them and reached into his pocket, taking out an oblong box Ethan recognized from his first day at Malfoy manor. It had contained the poison syringe Snape had injected him with.

He didn't remember moving, but somehow he was at the far side of the room, back pressed against the wall.

"Get that thing away from me!"

"Don't be ridiculous." Snape took the syringe from the box and held it up to the light. It was empty. "I need to draw a blood sample from you."

"Why?"

"Because I said so, you idiot Muggle." Snape advanced into the room, scowling. Ethan edged sideways into the farthest corner until there was no place left to go. "It's not going to harm you. Stand still and do as you're told."

"What if I don't want to?" Ethan found himself curling his arms protectively against his chest, as if that could possibly do any good. "What if I scream?"

Snape shrugged. "Go on, then. No one is around except the house elves, and they're used to people screaming in the spare rooms." He took another step forward.

"I'll tell Malfoy!" Ethan said desperately. Snape stopped and glared at him.

"You could do that, yes. And Malfoy will tell Voldemort, who will no doubt kill me in some prolonged and highly unpleasant manner. And you will be stuck here, with no one left to make the antidote for you. Is this what you want?"

Ethan had no idea what to think. Snape had as good as admitted that he was doing something Malfoy and Voldemort didn't know about and wouldn't approve, but Ethan was still reluctant to assume that any of it was going to be of any benefit to him. The thought of letting Severus Snape come anywhere near him with a needle was unbearable. But what choice did he have, in the end? Snape could paralyze him with a word and a wave of his wand. And if the greasy sod _was_ trying to help, then Ethan couldn't afford to piss him off, could he?

"All right." Ethan stepped away from the wall and lowered his arms. "Just get it over with."

It was one of the hardest things he'd ever done, to stand there and not struggle while Snape drew blood from his arm, but Ethan managed it, though he couldn't quite keep himself from shivering. Snape worked in tight-lipped silence, filling and pocketing three vials of blood before putting away the syringe and leaving another bottle of antidote on the desk.

"Same as yesterday," he said. "Wait as long as you can before you take it. Write down everything that happens." And then he was gone, sweeping out of the room before Ethan had a chance to reply.

Ethan sat down on the bed, feeling cold and shaky. He stared at his arm, with the darkening bruise in the crook of the elbow where Snape had stuck his needle.

"Fucking bastard," he muttered, not sure if he was addressing Snape, or Voldemort, or himself, or the universe in general. The urge to just sit there and wallow in his misery was overwhelming, but he knew it wasn't going to help. There were things that needed to be done. He had to work on his own plans, regardless of what Snape was doing. Growling curses under his breath, Ethan rolled down his sleeve, fetched a book from one of the tottering piles next to the desk, and sat down to work.


	8. Chapter 8

The End of the Beginning By Mariner 

**Chapter 8 **  
  
**July 10, 1981**  
  


The black dog sprawled by the side of the gate in front of the Rosier house, its dusty coat blending into the shadow of the elm tree that leaned over the garden fence. From a distance it appeared to be asleep, shaggy head resting peacefully on neatly folded paws, but its ears twitched alertly, and from time to time one pale eye would open to survey the road and the sky above it. When a small black speck appeared against the clouds, the dog lifted its head. When the speck resolved itself into the silhouette of a robed wizard straddling a broom, the dog rose up into a crouch and coiled itself to spring. When the wizard's feet touched the cobblestone path in front of the gate, the dog let loose a raucous volley of barking and sprang.

Evan Rosier was clearly unprepared to find himself bowled over and pinned to the ground by a slavering black beast. He shrieked. He flailed his arms. He tried to go for his wand, but froze when massive, drool-flecked jaws closed around his wrist. The dog growled, a low, rumbling sound that seemed to shake the ground beneath it, and drooled liberally down Rosier's sleeve. Then it planted its hind feet on Rosier's stomach and leaped, sailing over the road in a wide arc to disappear into a thicket of mulberry bushes on the other side.

Rosier lay in the dirt for a minute or so before climbing to his feet. His hair was sticking out wildly in all directions, and his robes were torn and mud-stained. He brushed himself off with shaking hands, picked up his fallen broom, and limped into the house. The dog crouched behind a boulder to watch him go. After a couple of minutes it crept out from its hiding place, crossed the road again, and ran off into the trees behind the house.

There was no clear path, but the dog ran with a purposeful air, eyes and nose totally focused on its destination. After about a quarter of a mile, the trees thinned out to form a small, sheltered clearing. A rough campsite filled most of the open space, with two sleeping bags laid out on either side of a banked fire. There was a scrying glass on a tripod next to the fire, and a small Muggle portable radio playing barely-audible jazz interspersed with bursts of static. A thin young man in shabby robes sat cross-legged on one of the bags, sorting through some papers in his lap. He looked up with an exasperated frown as the dog bounded into the clearing.

"One of these days, Padfoot, you're going to take that slavering monster routine of yours a step too far, and some perfectly innocent wizard is going to hex you thinking you're a Grim."

The dog gave a soft bark that turned into a smothered laugh half-way through. Sirius Black, human again, sprawled on the other sleeping bag.

"They'll have to be a hell of a lot quicker on the draw than Rosier." He sat up and combed his fingers through his hair, dislodging some stray leaves and twigs. "Besides, if that bastard's innocent, I'll eat my second-best hat." He smiled, but Remus' expression remained grave.

"I mean it, Sirius. You need to tone down the act. People are jumping at shadows these days. Death Eaters are throwing Unforgivables at anything that looks at them cross-eyed, and ordinary wizards and witches aren't much better."

"It's always been like that," Sirius grumbled. Remus shook his head.

"It's been worse this past year. Ever since Crouch took over Magic Law Enforcement. We have to be more careful now. _You_ have to be more careful."

"You're no fun anymore," Sirius muttered. He'd felt quite cheerful when he'd run into the campsite as Padfoot a minute ago, but Remus' lecturing tone was rapidly spoiling his mood. He pulled off his boots and made a big show of fluffing the sleeping bag around his feet, hoping that the activity would make his silence seem industrious rather than sulky.

It wasn't as if "the act," as Remus called it, was just there for his personal amusement. It served a purpose. They had it down to a science, rehearsed and performed hundreds of times over the past four years. Whenever a spot of burglary was required, Remus would go in while Padfoot kept lookout. If anyone turned up, Padfoot would pounce and bark. The noise served to alert Remus, and the pouncing was certainly fun, but that wasn't the point. The point was, people who had been vigorously pounced on by a giant black dog tended to become discombobulated. They entered their houses shaky and distracted, anxious to wash and to change their clothes, and not at all inclined to notice if the pile of papers on their desk had been moved half an inch to the left, or a drawer was slightly open, or the ward on the back door showed signs of having been deactivated and then reset again. It was a good act. It had always worked. It still worked. Nothing had changed, except...

Except Remus himself.

Sirius had first noticed it three or four months before, but once he'd started thinking about it, he had seen the signs going back at least a year. Remus had always been reticent around strangers, and with good reason, too, but now he wore that same cautiously blank facade around his friends. Oh, he still chatted and made jokes and acted more or less like his usual self -- except that somehow, any conversation about Remus quickly turned into a conversation about something else. Sirius knew every half-way interesting thing that had ever happened to Peter, he probably knew more about James than anyone except Lily, but he had absolutely no idea what was going on in Remus' life anymore -- and he _lived_ with the man.

And then, in February, Remus had put a stop to their monthly outings, citing new Ministry procedures. Registered werewolves had always been required to have a "containment area," certified for safety and regularly inspected, where they would confine themselves during full moon nights. Those who couldn't afford their own had to present themselves at official "support centers" to spend the night caged under the watchful eyes of Registry officials. Remus' area was a tin-roofed brick shed behind the house he shared with Sirius, with an iron door and a barred window. Lily had done the reinforcing spells herself; a Hungarian Horntail couldn't have broken out of there. The inspectors had been very impressed.

It was all supposed to be for show, of course. The shed had stood empty for years while Moony and Padfoot (and, on increasingly rare occasions, Wormtail and Prongs) Apparated to a new remote location every month to run free under the moon. But at the start of the year, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement took over the Werewolf Registry. A few weeks later, Barty Crouch had announced a new policy of surprise inspections, designed to make sure that all werewolves were, in fact, locked inside the containment units at full moon. Remus had to start complying with the rules. Sirius understood that. What he couldn't understand was Remus' steadfast refusal to allow Padfoot into the shed. They'd had a long and loud argument about it, their first real fight since the night Sirius had sent Snape to the Shrieking Shack five years before.

They'd developed a new routine for full moon nights. Remus, pale and preternaturally calm, would lock himself in at sundown. Sirius would transform, so that the wolf wouldn't smell human prey outside, and curl up by the door for the night. He never heard what was happening inside the shed -- Lily's Soundproofing charms were as efficient as everything else she ever did -- but Padfoot's sensitive nose would pick up the smell of blood, growing thicker and more cloying as the night wore on. In the morning he would change back, unspell the locks, and drag Remus' unconscious body into the house to recuperate.

The experience always left him a mental wreck, a weakness made all the more galling by the fact that Remus, the real victim, was so perfectly stoic about it. Sirius dealt with it as best he could. He was rapidly becoming an expert in healing spells and cleaning charms. But he had never felt so useless in his entire life. And Remus refused to talk about it, refused to change the arrangements in any way, refused to let Sirius write a letter of protest to the Werewolf Services Division.

"Don't bring your name to their attention," he'd said, and then refused to explain what he meant by that.

He'd tried to accept the silences as Remus' way of coping. It wasn't his own way -- Sirius Black never did anything silently if he could help it -- but if it worked, then who was he to criticize? But then in April, Remus joined a support group. At least that's what it sounded like, though he'd stared blankly when Sirius used the term. A support group. For werewolves. He'd go to meetings once or twice a month, and come back looking thoughtful, and chat about the weather. He wouldn't say what the group was like, or who was in it, or what they talked about, or whether or not it helped. Confidentiality issues, he said. All members were sworn not to discuss group business with outsiders.

Outsiders. Meaning Sirius. Sirius, who could be counted on to charm bloodstains from brick and cement every month, to heal bite marks without leaving a scar, to mend torn robes and broken bones… but who didn't, apparently, count as support.

"Padfoot?"

"Huh? What?" Sirius looked up with a start to find Remus watching him with a concerned expression. "I'm sorry, I was just..."

"Brooding?"

"Thinking." Sirius forced a smile. "Were you saying something?"

"I was asking if you wanted to take a look." Remus held out some parchment sheets covered in small, dense writing. "I copied these from a book Rosier had in a secret drawer in his desk. Do you recognize any of these spells?"

"No." Sirius stared at the top sheet, feeling increasingly appalled. "Shit. That is definitely _not_ part of the standard Hogwarts curriculum. Durmstrang, maybe… How much do you want to bet it's on the Ministry's list of proscribed books?"

"No bets." Remus smiled sourly. "Have you looked at the list recently? Half the books _we_ own are on it."

"We sure as hell don't own anything like this."

"True. I think Dumbledore will be very interested in seeing this."

"Not to mention Crouch," Sirius said excitedly. "Do you think the Aurors can get a warrant out of it?"

Alastor Moody had been fighting for approval to detain Evan Rosier for questioning, with no success. Rosier was a friend of Lucius Malfoy, and the Malfoys still had enough pull at the Ministry to keep their friends from being officially harassed. That was where Sirius and Remus came in. Their job was to harass people unofficially. 

"I don't know," said Remus. "I wouldn't want to count on it. Everyone owns proscribed books -- you can hardly help it, with the list changing every month. Besides, we want to get him arrested, not fined. And for that, we'd better get something more incriminating."

"I suppose so…" Sirius sighed. "Why can't Death Eaters ever be cooperative? 'Dear diary: went to Malfoy Manor last night. Performed unspeakable Dark rituals and licked Lord Voldemort's boots.' Is that too much to ask, just once?"

Remus actually smiled at that, and Sirius' spirits lifted a little. "No such luck, I'm afraid, but he did have some letters hidden in the same drawer as the book. I tried to make copies, but they had some sort of charm on them to prevent it. I want to come back again and see if I can break it."

That sounded promising. "Did you read them?"

"Only a couple. I didn't want to stand there too long. Innocuous-looking stuff, all of it, but I think it's in code. Why would Genevieve LeStrange be writing to Rosier about a shopping trip to Paris?"

Sirius shrugged, smirking. "She wants his advice on the latest lingerie styles?"

Remus shrugged "If it's a code, we'll work it out later. In the meantime, back to the fun stuff." He gestured toward the scrying glass, which was showing a slightly foggy image of Rosier's house. It looked quiet enough. The kitchen light was on, and the unshuttered window revealed a fuzzy shape that was presumably Rosier. He appeared to be making tea.

"Ah, yes, the glamour and excitement of surveillance work." Sirius stifled a yawn and burrowed deeper into his sleeping bag. "Wake me up if he does anything interesting, will you?"

* * *

Three days later, Rosier still hadn't done anything interesting, but he had at least left the house long enough for Remus to work out a way to copy his letters. Armed with the collected evidence, Sirius and Remus packed up their campsite and Apparated to the small village in the Cotswolds where Albus Dumbledore made his home away from Hogwarts.

They arrived just as Mundungus Fletcher was leaving. The older man looked thin and haggard. He leaned heavily on a cane and favored his left leg as he limped down the steps. He nodded at Sirius cordially enough, but the glare he aimed at Remus was startlingly and inexplicably hostile. Fletcher had always seemed to like Remus in the past.

Sirius bristled, but Remus showed no reaction. Nor did he say anything about it while Albus ushered them into his parlor and plied them with tea and sandwiches. Finally, Sirius' patience snapped.

"All right, Albus, what's the matter with Fletcher? That look he gave Remus at the door should've been classified as an Unforgivable."

"You're exaggerating," Remus said softly. Sirius ignored him, looking straight at Albus until the old man sighed and put down his cup.

"Try to be patient with Mundungus, Sirius. He's just come back from a month in the Channel Islands."

"Oh?" Sirius sat up a little straighter, concerned despite his irritation. The Channel Islands were not a good place for a wizard to be. Voldemort was rumored to have a base on an unplottable island near Sark. "What was he doing there?"

"Investigating an unusually high concentration of beasts and monsters in the area." Dumbledore's face was grave. "Hags, vampires, erklings, trolls, kelpies… there were even rumors of some quintapeds being seen on one of the beaches, though I'm glad to say those turned out to be unfounded. It appears that Voldemort has found a way to summon and control Dark creatures from a distance. Mundungus thinks it's a variation of the Imperius curse."

"But what does it have to do with-- oh." Sirius clenched his fists as the implication sank in. "Remus is not a Dark creature."

"Of course not," Dumbledore said gently. "But Mundungus has had a difficult time. Give him a few days to calm down."

Sirius wanted to say that having a difficult time was no excuse for suddenly turning on one's friends, but before he could get a word out, Remus jumped in with the report on Rosier, and the opportunity was lost.

The subject didn't come up again until that evening, when Sirius and Remus were home again, settled down in the living room with a couple of beers and a game of wizard chess. Remus played an unusually sloppy game: giving up pieces for no gain, missing obvious opportunities, staring at the board for minutes at a time only to make an apparently random move. Sirius, accustomed to having to batter his way through an impenetrable defense, found himself flailing as all his usual strategies collapsed for lack of resistance.

"Remus, you know you can't do that, don't you?"

"Do what?"

"Move that knight. You'll put yourself in check."

"Hmm?" Remus blinked at the white horseman in his hand as if he'd never seen it before. "Oh. Right. Sorry." He put the knight back down and hunched over the board while his long-suffering pieces twitched and fidgeted. After nearly a minute of deliberation, he nudged one of his three remaining pawns. The little ivory soldier looked confused, but obediently marched into the next square. 

Sirius gave an exasperated sigh. "All right, Remus, what's the matter?"

"Nothing." Suddenly, Remus was staring at the board in front of him with more focused attention than he had given it since the game began. "Why do you ask?"

"You're woolgathering. This isn't like you."

"I'm not woolgathering, I'm thinking."

"Not about chess, you're not." Sirius leaned forward and tipped over his king, who fell over with an indignant squeal and kicked his little red-lacquered legs in the air. "There. I forfeit. You win. Now talk to me."

Remus looked at him with bland, patient eyes. "About what?"

Sirius felt very proud of himself for not throwing the chess board across the room. "It's Fletcher, isn't it?" he growled. "Come on, Remus, what do you care what the old sod thinks? We all know he's full of shit."

"Is he?" Remus lowered his gaze back to the board, where the assorted pieces were reassembling themselves and grumpily trudging back into their box. His shoulders were set at an unnaturally straight angle, and his hands were clasped together tightly in his lap. "What if he's right? If Voldemort can really Imperio Dark creatures from a distance--"

"You're not a Dark creature!" Sirius tried not to shout, he really did, but this was just too much. "Except for one night a month, and then you're locked up in a brick box with me guarding the door. You're safe."

"Can you be sure?" Remus did not relax. "Some people say there's no such thing as being a monster part-time. They say the wolf is always there, even when it's not visible."

"Yeah, well." Sirius shrugged. "Some people are bigoted morons."

"But can you be sure they're wrong? Would you bet your life on it?"

"Yes!"

"What about somebody else's life?"

"Y-yes."

It was such a tiny hesitation. Not even a second. Most people would never have noticed it. But Remus always noticed everything.

"See?" he said, and there was something in his voice that sounded almost glad, as if he was actually relieved to have his fears confirmed. "You don't know either."

"Moony--" Sirius began, but Remus pushed his chair back and stood up.

"Not now, Sirius. I'm tired. We'll talk tomorrow, all right?" He nearly ran from the room.

Sirius sat there and watched him go, and knew that when tomorrow came around, neither one of them would say a word about it.


	9. Chapter 9

The End of the Beginning By Mariner 

**Chapter 9**  
  
**July 21 1981**  
  


Giles knew something was wrong as soon as he walked into the Potters' living room. Lily and Peter sat side by side on the sofa, both looking pale and hollow-eyed. Lily was turning an empty wine glass around and around in her hands, while Peter gnawed his nails. Across the room from them, Tobias prowled back and forth in front of the fireplace. Only Harry, blithely chewing the wing off a plush owl in his playpen, seemed immune to the tension. 

"Giles!" Lily stood up shakily, leaning on the sofa arm for support. "God. We forgot you were coming, I'm sorry..."

"Not at all," Giles said automatically. "If this is a bad time--"

"No. I mean, it is, but that doesn't mean we don't want you here." Lily put her glass down with an alarmingly loud clank. "You can help us keep busy while we wait."

"I'll do my best." Giles dropped his book satchel onto the coffee table with a heavy thud. "Uhm… what are we waiting for exactly? Has something happened?"

"Emergency raid," Tobias growled. He had stopped pacing and was now standing with both hands braced against the mantelpiece and one foot tapping a nervous rhythm on the floor. "James and Anita got called in about twenty minutes ago. We don't know where they are."

"We don't know anything," Lily said. "We've all been sitting here slowly going crazy. Distract us, will you? Teach us something difficult."

Giles did his best, but it quickly became obvious that no one had any concentration to spare for his carefully prepared lecture on spirit guides. Peter made a very unconvincing pretense of taking notes, Tobias didn't even bother trying, and Lily kept getting up every couple of minutes to check on Harry as if he, too, might get called away on an Auror raid at any moment. Giles carried on gamely for almost half an hour before putting down his notes and gently plucking the quill from Lily's hand.

"I think," he said, "we'd better leave this for another time."

"No, I'm listening," Lily protested half-heartedly. Giles quirked an eyebrow at her, and she gave him a guilty little smile. "All right, maybe I'm not. But I'm pretending to listen, which at least is something to do. Something other than mindlessly staring at the walls, I mean." 

"I know," said Peter. "Why don't we be stereotypical and make some tea?"

They did it the Muggle way, making a sort of group ritual out of it, cutting the sandwiches into dozens of perfect little crustless triangles while they waited for the water to boil. But when the tea was brewed and the table set and the sandwiches and biscuits laid out in pretty patterns on their platters, no one had any appetite at all. Even Peter, who could normally be counted on to eat anything that was put in front of him at any time of day, just sat there dunking a rosewater biscuit into his tea until it dissolved into a soggy mess.

"God, I hate this!" Tobias stood up clumsily, catching his chair a moment before it could topple over, and began to pace again. "On a scheduled raid, I at least have some idea where she is, but this… she might as well be on the moon. I wish she _was_ on the moon, it's probably safer. I wish-- what?"

Lily and Peter were both frowning at him with nearly identical disapproving expressions. Lily looked as if she was about to say something, then shook her head and turned away.

"Nothing," she muttered, and took a determined bite of the cucumber sandwich she'd been toying with for the past two minutes.

Peter continued to frown. "Anita tells you when there's a raid scheduled? She's not supposed to do that." 

"Well…" Tobias stared at his shoes. "It's not as if she draws me a timetable and a map. It's more like, 'I'll be in Liverpool tomorrow night dear, don't wait up.' I don't know why that should make me feel any better -- it's not as if I can actually do anything, even if I know which part of the country she's in -- but it helps, somehow."

"She's not supposed to do that," Peter repeated doggedly. "It's dangerous."

"What, as though I'm going to gossip with the neighbors about it?" Tobias gave a short, angry laugh. "We live in Muggle London. Our neighbors think Anita's an accountant."

"The Death Eaters know she isn't," Lily said flatly. "Anyway, it's against regulations."

Tobias scowled. "You going to report her?"

Before either Lily or Peter had a chance to reply, there was a flare of green light in the fireplace. The uniformed Auror whose blond head and broad shoulders leaned out of the flames was unfamiliar to Giles, but he was obviously familiar to the others. Lily and Tobias nearly bowled each other over in their rush to get to the hearth.

"Frank." Lily crouched in front of the fire. "What happened, is it over? James and Anita--"

"Are alive," Frank said quickly. It was hard to tell through the flickering flames, but Giles thought he looked pale, and there were dark smudges on his robes that could've been dirt or dried blood or just soot. "They're in St. Mungo's. Anita's having a few minor hexes removed, nothing serious. James..." he hesitated. Lily swayed a little, and Peter came over quickly to put his hands on her shoulders. "He's unconscious. Can you Apparate over straight away?"

"We'll be there at once," Lily said. Frank nodded.

"I'll tell them to expect you. Must go now -- people to see, stupid paperwork to fill out." He disappeared in another flash of green. 

Lily stood, one hand clutching Peter's arm in a painful-looking grip. She looked over at the playpen, where Harry had abandoned the owl in favor of a battered, one-eared teddy bear which he was trying to mount on a too-small toy broom. "Giles..."

"Go," he said. "Stay as long as you need to. I'll watch Harry."

"Thank you." Lily's face and voice seemed calm enough, but when she hugged him, Giles could feel her trembling ever so slightly. "Uhm… The clean nappies are in the blue bin in the nursery, the baby food is in the cupboard over the stove, the first-aid kit is in the bathroom… The clock will tell you when to feed him. If I don't get back soon, I'll send somebody over so you're not stuck here for too--"

"I'll be fine," Giles said, hoping it was true. He'd never spent an extended period of time alone with a baby before; he wondered what he'd do in an emergency. The Potters didn't have a phone, and he couldn't imagine dealing with Floo powder, or with the huge, haughty-looking owl that lived in their back garden. Now was not the time to voice these concerns to Lily, however. Giles did his best to look competent and reassuring. It must've worked, because Lily managed a tiny, grateful smile.

"Tobias, do you trust me to Apparate with you, or would you rather we sent somebody over with a Portkey?"

"I'm not waiting," Tobias said grimly. Lily nodded and took his hand.

"Bye, Giles." She took a deep breath. There was a faint pop, and the two of them were gone from the room. Peter stared at the spot where they had just stood, and shuffled his feet.

"I hate this part," he said. "Here goes..." He closed his eyes and scrunched his face in concentration. "One, two, three..."

_Pop._ He was gone.

Giles sat in the window seat, which was within easy reach of the playpen.

"You'd better behave yourself, young man," he told Harry, "because I have no idea what to do if you don't."

"Woogagooga," said Harry. Giles decided to interpret that as "I will be good."

He tried to sit and read quietly, but found he was too distracted to focus on the page. His mind was filled with images of Lily keeping vigil at her husband's bedside. Giles wondered was wizard hospitals were like. Were they anything like the whitewashed, antiseptic places he was accustomed to, or was it as torch-lit and medieval as their police stations? Did wizard doctors produce miracle cures with a flick of a wand, or were they still sticking leeches onto their patients? Their world was such a hopeless hodgepodge, he never knew what to expect. But he'd seen enough to know that wizards bled and scarred and died just as ordinary people did.

Giles had never felt more useless in his entire life. There was a war on; a war which, if he understood correctly, was at least partially to protect people like him -- and all he could offer was books and lectures and babysitting services. He tried to tell himself that he was doing his bit. The wards he'd made with Lily, Tobias and Peter were supposedly protecting strategic places. Aurors now went into battle carrying little engraved scarabs that warned them of attacks from behind. And Sirius and Remus had reported that the scrying glass he'd made for them saw right through the traditional wizarding privacy charms. All of which seemed pretty irrelevant when weighed against the possibility that James might be dead.

He was supposed to be prepared for this, in theory if not in practice. Much of his early Watcher training had centered around learning to achieve the proper detached mindset. Quentin Travers had a standard lecture that he delivered to the recruits in their first month -- all about Necessary Sacrifices and the Greater Good and Remembering Priorities. Good and Evil were at war in the world, he had told them in a stern and resolute voice, and the Watchers' job was to work for victory, not to get emotionally attached to the cannon fodder. It had all sounded very noble and stoic at the time. Now Giles felt an irrepressible urge to track down Travers and sock him in the jaw.

It was almost a relief when Harry started fussing -- at last, Giles had something to distract him from his worrying and brooding. He leaned into the playpen and made silly faces. That worked for a couple of minutes, but once the novelty wore off, Harry's face again assumed the unmistakable distressed look of a toddler who wanted a parent. His lower lip quivered. His big green eyes got even bigger. His face went pink. He gave an experimental little whimper, then a whine, then a full-fledged, eardrum-shattering wail.

"Please don't do that." Giles scooped Harry out of the pen and cradled him against one shoulder, trying desperately to hold on tight enough to manage the surprisingly energetic squirming, but not tight enough to hurt. "What is it? Do you need to be changed? Uhm… apparently not. Of course, God forbid there should be a simple solution to the problem…" He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet and patted Harry's back with his palm. The wailing continued. "Look, we both know this is a temporary arrangement. Mummy will be back soon -- and Daddy too, I'm sure -- and everything will be back to whatever passes for normal around here. Until then, what do you say we both just wait it out quie-- oh, bloody hell, must you do that right in my ear?"

He walked around the room in circles. He found a rattle and shook it over Harry's head. He talked baby talk. Finally, he gave up in exhaustion and sank onto the couch, the baby still wriggling and wailing in his arms.

"All right, I give up. Caterwaul if you must, but can you at least get some rhythm into it? A melody, maybe? Look, it's not that hard. There's a laaaady who's sure all that glitters is go-old and she's buuuuuying a stairway..."

He was half-way through the third verse when he realized that Harry had fallen silent and was watching him with a befuddled but not entirely displeased expression. For a moment, Giles nearly forgot the lyrics in sheer surprise, but he recovered quickly, hummed his way through the next two lines, and picked up the next verse not only with the right words, but in the right key, too.

Harry turned out to be gratifying proof that the younger generation could appreciate proper music after all. He gave his full, openmouthed attention to "Stairway to Heaven," "Free Bird," and "Nights in White Satin." He gobbled his pureed carrots to the rousing beat of "Satisfaction." "Locomotive Breath" made him a little restless, but "Layla" calmed him down again. And he became so thoroughly engrossed by "Boris the Spider" that he didn't even notice his nappy was being changed. By the time the living room clock said "Bedtime for baby!" in a disgustingly chirpy voice, Giles was starting to feel rather hoarse; he was not at all pleased with his closing rendition of "Imagine." But his sleepy audience did not seem to mind.

With Harry tucked in cozily in his cradle, Giles was left alone with dark thoughts again. He prowled around the living room, too restless to read or sleep, examining random items from the shelves and tables. The snow globe with the Brighton Pavilion inside had to be a Muggle souvenir; one of his aunts had one just like it. But the iridescent green dragonfly inside the crystal paperweight on the end table actually fluttered its wings from time to time, and the cast iron griffin bookends turned their shaggy heads to follow him as he walked past. In a brass-framed photograph on the mantelpiece, James and Lily in their wedding clothes smiled and waved at the camera from under a rose-entwined arch. Behind them, Sirius was swigging champagne straight from the bottle and saying something that caused James to turn around and give him a playful smack on the side of the head. At the edge of the frame, a thin, blond woman in a pink bridesmaid's dress watched the proceedings with a disgusted expression. When James smacked Sirius, she curled up her lip and sneered.

Giles stood and stared at the photograph for a long time. It was a loop, he realized. A little bubble of time playing itself over and over. James and Lily waved, Sirius drank, James smacked, the blond woman sniffed, James and Lily waved… he wondered why Lily had chosen such a sour-looking bitch for a bridesmaid. A distant relation, maybe? They didn't look anything alike...

"Get some sleep, will you?" the clock grumbled at him. "You look all done in."

"Who asked you?" Giles grumbled back, but went and lay on the couch anyway. It was too short for him; he piled all the cushions under his head, propped his feet on the armrest, closed his eyes, and determined not to move until he fell asleep.

It must've worked, because the next thing he knew it was pitch black outside, and the clock read three in the morning. There was a crick in his neck, his left foot was asleep, and his eyes felt gritty. Giles yawned, sat up, and found himself looking up at Lily, who was standing in the middle of the room. It must've been her arrival that awakened him.

"Lily." Giles took her hand and gently drew her toward the couch. She sat down heavily and hugged a cushion to her chest. "Are you all right? Is James--"

"He'll be fine." Lily's voice was brittle. "He woke up a couple of hours ago. He's got a concussion and a broken shoulder blade and… and some other stuff that's not serious." She sniffled loudly and surreptitiously wiped her nose on the edge of the cushion. "It's just typical. Great big magical battle, Death Eaters everywhere, hundreds of curses flying back and forth, and in the middle of it all, my idiot husband manages to fall off a roof… I hope Harry didn't give you too much trouble."

"He was a perfect angel," Giles said solemnly. Lily sniffled again, this time managing to convey a healthy degree of skepticism with the sound. Her face was very pale, and her eyes looked swollen. She rocked back and forth in her seat, clinging to the cushion in her arms as if her life depended on it. Giles wanted to gather her into his arms and tell her everything was going to be all right, but he knew it would be an intrusion and a lie. Still, he couldn't stop himself reaching out to stroke her hair, just once.

"I'm glad James is all right," he said.

"For now." Lily shivered. "It's not as if the danger is over. It's not as if it's ever over. How long before it catches up with him, Giles? How long before it catches up with all of us?" She rose to her feet with a sudden, jerky movement and hurled the cushion across the room. It hit the wall above the fireplace and fell to the flagstones with a dull thud.

The air in the room suddenly felt thick and peculiarly charged; Giles felt his lungs struggling with each breath, as if a heavy weight was pressing on his chest. The candles in the chandelier flared brighter. The window panes vibrated audibly.

"I hate this. I hate this life!" Lily's hands clenched into fists. A vase on the coffee table cracked into four pieces. "I hate kissing my husband good-bye in the morning and not knowing if I'll ever see him again. I hate sitting down to dinner with my friends and wondering who'll be gone the next time we meet." The book case wobbled from side to side, spilling a small avalanche of books onto the floor. "I hate funerals, and there's another one every week, and James is out there _killing_ people, and Peter says he's too unimportant to kill, but we all know it's bullshit, and I don't even know _what_ the fuck Sirius and Remus are doing all the time, and they all come here and laugh about it like it's one big joke, and it's not a joke, it's my whole bloody life and I _hate_ it!" Something crashed in the kitchen. The pictures on the walls rattled in their frames.

"Lily." Giles reached out and put one hand on her arm, but she jerked away from him, trembling. The dragonfly paperweight exploded. Giles curled his arms over his head and felt his hands sting where tiny shards of flying glass sliced across his skin. "Lily, stop." He stood and pulled her to him, holding her, not letting her pull away. "Please, you'll wake Harry. You'll scare him. You're scaring me. Please stop…" Even as he pleaded, right on cue, he could hear Harry's terrified howling upstairs.

"Oh, hell…" Lily buried her face in Giles' shirtfront. Her shoulders shook. Giles stroked her hair and made soothing noises, and felt the pressure in the air slowly recede. "I'm sorry," she mumbled after a while. "I don't know what--"

"It's all right. No harm done."

"I'd better go see to Harry." She pushed away from him, not roughly, but not in a way that invited argument, either. "I'll be back in a minute," she said and ran upstairs.

Giles took out his handkerchief and dabbed the blood from the back of his hands. The cuts were shallow and stopped bleeding quickly. He gathered the books from the floor and re-shelved them, and was looking for something to sweep up the broken glass with when the crying in the nursery faded to silence and Lily came back downstairs.

"I'll do that." She had her wand in one hand and a thick leatherbound book in the other. "Reparo." Giles got ready to duck, but it seemed she had herself under control now. The pottery shards on the coffee table floated upwards and neatly reassembled themselves into an undamaged vase. Another graceful wave of the wand, and the paperweight was back in its proper place, not as much as a nick marring the glass surface. "I'm sorry, Giles. I don't know what came over me. I've never lost control like that before."

"Then I'd say you were due." Giles gave her a reassuring smile. "Look, I think we both could do with a bit of rest. Would you like me to go, or stay and help you in the mor--"

"Stay," Lily said quickly. "I... I actually want to talk to you about something, if you're up to it." She held up the book she was carrying. "You lent me this last month, remember? I've been working my way through it, but it's really of difficult -- all the Greek and Sumerian mixed together like that, the translation spells just go crazy..." She sat down and opened the book in her lap. There's something here I want to ask you about."

"Now?" Giles took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He felt achy and fuzzy-headed and not at all up to deciphering spells in two ancient languages. "Maybe if we sleep on it for a few hours--"

"Please. It's important." Lily patted the cushion next to her, and Giles obediently sat down. "I've been translating this spell -- tell me if I'm reading it right. The spell-caster invokes the goddess Inanna--"

"To shield a loved one in a time of war, yes." Giles leaned in to read over Lily's shoulder. "It's not so much a spell as a… a petition, I suppose. You invoke the goddess and… what's the phrase here… bare your heart for judgment. If Inanna finds your love is strong enough, she will shield your beloved from harm."

"Yes! I knew I had it right." Lily's eyes suddenly looked more focused, and a bit of color returned to her face. "I could do this, couldn't I? For James and Harry. I could keep them safe."

"I'm sure you could perform the spell, but…" Giles gently took the book from her hands and turned the page. "You haven't translated it all yet, have you?"

"Just the opening passages and the basic description of the ritual." Lily tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Why, is it dangerous or something?"

"Not particularly, no. But you can only cast it once. On one person. And you can't waver, or doubt, or make a half-hearted choice. You must love one person unequivocally above all others."

"I..." Lily closed her eyes for a moment and pressed the back of her hand against her mouth. "I'd have to choose?"

"I'm sorry," Giles said helplessly. Lily shook her head, staring at the faded black text as if she could force it to say something different through sheer effort of will.

"I can't… it doesn't work that way. I could never choose."

"I know." Giles shut the book and put it on the table. "Very few people can. It's not a commonly used spell. I'm sorry, I wish I could do something."

"It's not your fault." Lily shrugged and forced a short, bitter laugh. "No miracle solutions for me, then. I get to cross my fingers and hope, just like everyone else. It just gets so exhausting sometimes… I'm glad you're here." She sighed and rested her forehead against Giles' shoulder.

Giles sat perfectly still, at a loss for anything useful to do or say. He was having enough trouble just keeping his eyes open.

"Lily?" he whispered after a while. No response. Her breathing was deep and stready. She didn't stir when Giles draped one arm across her back. Giles let out a long sigh that turned into a yawn. "Good night, Lily," he said softly and closed his eyes.

It took him forever to fall asleep again.


	10. Chapter 10

The End of the Beginning By Mariner 

**Chapter 10**  
  
**July 31, 1981**  
  


Harry Potter's first birthday party was apparently the social event of the year. Giles hadn't seen so many wizards and witches in one place since the day he'd given his first "Muggle magic" lecture at Dumbledore's safe house seven weeks earlier. All the people he had met then were at James and Lily's house now, along with Dumbledore, Moody, and a crowd of Aurors and Ministry wizards Giles hadn't met before. And children. A vast mob of children. Thousands of children, it seemed like, though when Giles tried to actually count them he couldn't come up with more than about a dozen.

The back garden had been transformed into a miniature playground, complete with swings, slides, a paddling pool, an obstacle course and a trampoline. A matched pair of carrot-haired toddlers bounced on the trampoline, shrieking happily at the top of their lungs. A smaller, younger version of the twins was splashing in the pool along with Harry and a varied assortment of other babies, while James, Sirius and Remus took turns at lifeguard duty. Giles, glad not to be responsible for anything except his own drink, escaped to the porch, where a group of childless adults had made a little refuge for themselves.

Moody grunted something that might have been a greeting, and handed Giles a bottle of butterbeer from a case at his feet. Giles uncapped it and took a swig, then coughed violently at the unexpected burn of alcohol down his throat. 

"That's not butterbeer," he wheezed.

"Shh." Anita held one finger to her lips, smiling. "Alastor's turned the whole case into gin. We won't tell Lily if you won't."

"My lips are sealed." Giles took another, more cautious swallow and leaned on the railing. "Just don't let any of the kids get their hands on it."

Anita giggled and leaned against her husband's shoulder in a manner that suggested she'd already consumed at least one of the faux butterbeers. "Children don't need drink. They act drunk by nature."

Giles looked down into the playground, where one of the carrot-haired twins had bounced off the trampoline and was now staggering dizzily around the lawn, occasionally toppling over and picking himself up again. "I see your point," he said.

"I think babies are sweet," Tobias said. Anita wrinkled her nose.

"Yeah, as long as they're somebody else's. Cute to look at, fun to play with, but changing nappies and singing lullabies? No, thanks."

"I don't know," said Giles. "I think I could get used to it." 

Moody watched him with undisguised amusement. "I think you've been hanging around with the Potters too long, Giles. Feeling domestic, are you? Looking for a nice witch to settle down with? I know lots of single lady Aurors."

"I can vouch for lady Aurors," said Tobias. "They're hot." Anita elbowed him in the ribs.

A chorus of shrieks rose from the paddling pool, where a number of children were apparently contesting the possession of a toy sailboat. James and Sirius were rapidly conjuring identical boats and trying to hand them out, but the combatants refused to be distracted by substitutes. The sea of guests began to ripple as various parents rushed to sort out the mess.

Giles gulped more gin. "I think I'll keep on with my glamorous bachelor lifestyle for the time being."

The pool commotion was interrupted by the arrival of the birthday cake: a humongous three-tiered tower of rainbow-colored icing with a sparkler on top. Dumbledore floated it out to a folding table in the middle of the garden, and Lily cut it into neat, identically-sized pieces while James and Sirius herded the adults and older children together for a rousing performance of "Happy Birthday." Harry seemed a bit confused by it all, but he clapped at the singing happily enough, scoffed down his piece of cake, and smeared the rainbow icing all over his face, which was all anyone expected of him. Giles waited until all the children and most of the adults had received their share of the cake before venturing off the porch.

"Giles." Lily smiled as she handed him a plate and a fork. "Thank you for coming. And thank you for the alphabet blocks, I'm sure Harry will have great fun with them."

"I'm sorry I couldn't find anything more magical at Hamleys," Giles said ruefully. "But then, I thought you and James might be grateful for a toy that doesn't fly, talk or explode."

"Too right." Lily sighed theatrically. "Have you seen that rocking horse Sirius brought in? It neighs and stamps its hooves. And eats sugar cubes. I told him I'd better not find any horse dung on the nursery carpet. Do you want some milk to go with that cake? It's very sticky."

"Thank you." Giles took a glass. "Why don't you have some, too? Look, we can go and sit over there on the swing. You look as if you could do with a rest."

The milk was cold, and the swing was good to sit on, and the cake had marzipan and raspberry jam between the layers. Giles felt wonderfully wicked as he used his fingers to scoop the last bits of icing off his plate.

"It's a good party," he told Lily. She gave a wry little grin as she made her empty plate and glass float back to the table.

"Yes, all the parents seem to be having a wonderful time."

"The children, too."

"Well, yes. But they'll all have forgotten it a week from now. The younger ones, anyhow. All this fuss and bother -- it's really for the adults, isn't it? Especially these days. You probably haven't seen enough to notice, but… the Wizarding world has been one big party lately, except when it's one big funeral. Eat, drink and be merry..."

Giles patted his stomach. "For tomorrow, we diet."

"And tonight we clean and do dishes. And cope with an overexcited one-year-old." Lily planted her feet and pushed off, making herself swing as high as the child-sized swing would allow. "Maybe I'll get Sirius to do the dishes. Tell him it's his sacred duty as a godfather."

"Does that ever work?"

"Surprisingly often."

"Lily!" Peter was jogging across the lawn toward them, looking very pink and unhappy. "Oh, hello, Giles, didn't see you there. Lily, who the heck invited Trelawney?"

"Nobody." Lily dug her heels into the ground, stopping herself rather jarringly in mid-swing. "Why, is she here?"

"Yeah. I bet the _spirits_ told her to come." Peter rolled his eyes. "Look, you really have to do something. She's going around reading people's palms and predicting the most horrible things! She told me I was going to get run over by the Knight Bus. She told Remus he was going to be eaten by a dragon. I don't know _what_ she told the Longbottoms, but Lucy's crying in the bathroom and Frank is _furious_!"

"Wonderful." Lily closed her eyes for a moment. "Can't you get James to-- no, he'd probably just hex her or something." She stood up with visible reluctance. "Sorry to abandon you, Giles, but duty calls."

"Do you need any help?" he asked. Lily shook her head.

"Trust me, you don't want to meet Sibyll Trelawney. Peter and I will take care of it." 

Peter looked a bit uneasy about it, but he obediently followed Lily back to the house. Giles rocked back and forth on his swing and tried to decide if he wanted more milk or more gin. Then James and Sirius drafted him to help referee some sort of complicated game involving water-squirting rubber wands and flying purple beach balls, and the mysterious Sibyll Trelawney slipped right out of his mind.

Refereeing a children's game turned out to be a surprisingly strenuous activity. Three times over the next hour, Giles ended up face down in the paddling pool, once with a squirming two-year-old attached to his arm. But the contest ended without anyone being drowned, which was apparently enough to qualify it as a success. James and Sirius handed packets of sweets to both the winners and the losers, while Giles escaped into the house for a wash.

He'd just opened the bathroom door when something tugged at the back of his shirt.

"You mustn't leave them!" a hollow voice boomed into his ear.

"I beg your pardon?" Giles pulled free and spun around, blinking dazedly through his mud-spattered glasses. The woman in front of him looked like an acid flashback come to life. She wore a gauzy purple caftan that swirled around her scrawny ankles, and flat-heeled rope sandals. A red, purple and yellow paisley shawl draped her shoulders, and a red satin scarf was wrapped gypsy-style around her head. She wore thick, oversized glasses with glittery purple frames, and the silvery gray eyes behind the lenses were wide and protruding.

"You mustn't leave them," she repeated, grabbing his wrist as he tried to brush past her. Her fingers looked like twigs, but her grip was surprisingly strong. She was wearing a cloying, fruity perfume that made Giles' nose itch. "They need you. The red-haired witch is a danger, she will lose her way when she loses her love. She will take the world into darkness. Only the boy can bring her back. You must keep her on the right path! You mustn't leave them!"

"Uhm... I was just going into the bathroom." Giles tried to pull his wrist out of the woman's grip, but she only held on tighter. He pulled again, and she gave a little moan and toppled over into his arms. Up close, her scent actually made him dizzy. Giles coughed and staggered back against the wall. "Miss? Are you all right? Miss?"

No response. The woman didn't weigh much, but she seemed to have sharp angles everywhere, and they were all poking Giles in tender places. He wrapped one arm around her waist and lowered her to the floor, patted her cheek, fanned one hand over her face. Her thin chest rose and fell as she breathed, but she wasn't moving.

"Giles? What happened?" It was Remus, looking concerned but perfectly calm. Giles had never been so glad to see him.

"I don't know. She was talking to me, and then she just fell over. Do you know who she is?"

"Sibyll Trelawney. I thought she'd left." Remus glanced over his shoulder toward the parlor door and pulled out his wand. "We should probably get her out of the hallway. Mobilicorpus."

Trelawney's body levitated gently off the floor, odds and ends of gaudy fabric trailing it like banners. Remus flicked his wand, and she floated down the hallway ahead of him. Giles stifled one last cough and followed.

The parlor, fortunately, was empty. Remus settled Trelawney on a settee by the window, removed the glasses from her nose and lifted one of her eyelids to peer at the pupil.

"I'm going to try and bring her around," he said. "Ener--"

Before he could complete the spell, Trelawney groaned and tossed her head from side to side. Remus knelt on the floor next to her and lightly squeezed her hand. 

"Sibyll? Are you all right?"

"Hmmm... I... what?" Trelawney finally opened her eyes and lifted her head a couple of inches off the cushions. "I can't see..."

"Your glasses, Sibyll." Remus placed them in her hand. She blinked owlishly at them for a few seconds, then put them on.

"Oh. Hello, Mr. Lupin." She smiled vaguely and batted her eyelashes. Her voice sounded soft and breathy, nothing like the hollow monotone she'd spoken in earlier. "What are you doing here? Uhm... what am _I_ doing here?"

"You were talking to Giles, and you fainted." Somehow, Remus managed to make that statement sound perfectly commonplace and reassuring. "You don't remember?"

"No." For the first time since she awoke, Trelawney's silvery eyes focused on Giles. "Hello… I don't believe we've met?"

"Not formally." Giles smiled awkwardly. He supposed that having a woman faint into his arms qualified as a meeting, but it certainly wasn't an introduction. "But you spoke to me earlier… something about the red-haired witch losing her way and… and taking the world into darkness. I don't suppose you'd care to explain that?"

"I'm sorry?" Trelawney's long, twiggy fingers toyed nervously with the fringe of her shawl. "You must have me confused with someone else. I'm sure I would've remembered if we'd spoken." She patted the scarf on her head and gave Giles a wide, dreamy smile. "You're a Pisces, of course."

Giles blinked. "Gemini, actually, but what--"

"Perhaps I could do your star chart one day." Trelawney put one hand on Remus' arm and pulled herself to her feet. "But now, my inner eye tells me that my wisdom is needed in the garden..." She took a rather unsteady step forward. Giles held out his hand, worried that she might keel over again.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"Oh, yes." She adjusted her shawl to bare one bony shoulder and fluttered her lashes again. "It was just a momentary weakness. It is a hard fate, this constant communication with the spirit world. Sometimes the strain becomes too much for me, here in the physical plane..." She sighed loudly, pressed the back of one hand against her forehead and wobbled out of the room, leaving behind a few stray sequins and a cloud of perfume. Giles watched her go, feeling a bit like a hapless audience member who'd been pulled on stage by a particularly obscure performance artist.

"Let me guess," he said, "this is one of those wizard things that Muggles are not meant to understand, right?"

Remus scratched his head. He looked slightly gobsmacked, too, which made Giles feel a little better. "I'm not sure anyone is meant to understand Sibyll. She fancies herself a seer; goes around predicting mortal doom for anyone who'll stand still long enough. It's all nonsense, of course -- well, aside from the fact that predicting mortal doom is a pretty safe bet these days -- but she's not usually prone to fainting fits… What did she say to you?"

Giles repeated, as best he could, the cryptic words Trelawney had intoned in the hallway. Remus listened with a puzzled frown.

"'She will take the world into darkness?' Those were the exact words?"

"I think so. And then she said I mustn't leave them, but she didn't say whom. Remus… surely there are plenty of red-haired witches around?"

"I can think of three off the top of my head," Remus said thoughtfully. "And it's exactly the vague sort of thing Sibyll likes to spout. But the rest of it… I don't know. I think we should tell Albus about it." He put his wand away and walked to the door. "I think I saw him in-- oh, hello, Peter. Have you seen Albus around?"

"Over there." Peter waved one hand in the vague direction of the front door. He looked a bit wilted, as if the excitement of the party was wearing him out. "Keeping the older kids entertained." He mopped his brow with his sleeve. "Better him then me, that's all I can say."

"Then he'll appreciate a break," Remus said cheerfully. "Come on, Giles."

There were about a dozen overexcited children in the front garden, all mounted on broomsticks, passing a ball back and forth. Albus Dumbledore supervised the proceedings from a chair at the edge of the lawn. He wore royal blue robes trimmed in red and gold, and would've looked very resplendent if not for the cake crumbs in his beard and the rubber ducky perched jauntily on the brim of his hat. He beamed benevolently at Giles and Remus as they approached him, ducking the occasional flying child.

"Enjoying the party, gentlemen?"

"Yes, thank you." Remus conjured a bench for him and Giles to sit on. "Albus, Giles here has just had a run-in with Sibyll Trelawney, and it sounded a little odd to me. I thought you should hear."

"Sibyll?" Dumbledore sat up a little straighter. The rubber duck toppled off his hat into his lap. "I hope she didn't-- pardon me a moment." He waved his hand at the ground and conjured a fat red cushion just in time to catch one of the children as she toppled off her broom. "That's better. As I was saying, I hope Sibyll didn't upset you. Her prognostications can be a bit gruesome sometimes."

"This one wasn't," said Giles. "But it was rather upsetting." Once again, he recited Trelawney's words. When he finished, Dumbledore gazed into the distance for a few moments, absently stroking his beard.

"That... is unusual," he said finally. "And you say she didn't remember what she'd said, afterwards?"

"She didn't seem to," Remus said. "And I don't think she was faking it. When Sibyll puts on a show, its always to draw more attention to her predictions, not less."

"True enough." Dumbledore retrieved the ducky from his lap and stuck it on his hat again. "Thank you for telling me, Remus. I will speak with Sibyll at the first opportunity. In the meantime…" He turned to Giles, eyes twinkling brightly under his hat brim. "I assume you have no intention of leaving us any time soon?"

"Not unless going home for the night counts as leaving," Giles reassured him. Dumbledore's grin grew wider. 

"Well, then I think we're safe for the time being." 

"Do you really think there's something in it?" Giles asked as he and Remus walked around the house to rejoin the party in the back garden. Remus shrugged.

"I really don't know. Divination isn't my speciality. But if there is something in it, Albus will work it out. Until then… not much point in worrying James and Lily about it, is there?"

In the playground ahead of them, James was trying to coax a reluctant-looking Harry into going down a slide. Harry was having none of it, clinging to the railing on top and vigorously shaking his head, until Lily knelt at the bottom to catch him. Then he let go and zoomed down the red plastic chute, arms and legs flailing, to land with a happy squeal in his mother's arms.

_She will take the world into darkness… only the boy can bring her back..._

"No," Giles said. "I don't think there's much point in worrying them now."


	11. Chapter 11

The End of the Beginning By Mariner 

**Chapter 11  
August 8, 1981**  
  


Sirius crouched in the stern of the boat, blinked the salt spray from his eyes and tried not to fidget. The wind stung his face and whipped his hair back, rocked the boat and churned the sea into a foaming frenzy, but did nothing to dispel the thick gray fog that smothered everything in sight. Sirius thought he could feel it swirling in his lungs when he breathed. He had to squint to see the other men in the boat with him: Moody hunched on the bow like a particularly grotesque figurehead, James near the mast, Fletcher at the tiller. There were ten boats altogether. Sirius couldn't see the others through the fog, but he knew they were nearby, ferrying a hand-picked group of Aurors, Hit Wizards and independent agents like himself and Fletcher.

Remus should've been there, but Remus had refused to come.

Sirius scowled fiercely and clenched his hands tighter around the broomstick that lay across his lap. A Shooting Star Mark Three, the best on the market, enhanced with extra charms for waterproofing and stability. Sirius would've preferred his bike. It was too loud, too big to fit in the boat, and generally too impractical for the enterprise, but he didn't care. Having it would've been like having an extra friend along. He wanted the bike. He wanted Remus in the boat with him. He wanted this stupid fog to go away. For someone who was regularly accused of always getting what he wanted, he was having a remarkably bad day.

The sea was getting choppier, and the boat pitched and bounced as it cut across the waves. It was propelled by magic rather than oar or sail, and the resulting motion seemed strangely unnatural, out of sync with the water beneath it. Sirius' stomach felt queasy. Just a touch of seasickness, he told himself. Not nerves. He'd be all right once he had something solid to stand on.

"Almost there," Fletcher hissed. "Everyone got your brooms?"

"Got it," James whispered. Moody gave a presumably affirmative grunt. Sirius nodded, not particularly caring if Fletcher could see him or not. He leaned forward, looking for any sign of the island they were supposedly approaching, but saw nothing but thick, swirling grayness. It had to be magical, Sirius thought; no natural fog could've stood up to this constant gale. The Death Eaters must've conjured it up to keep their Channel base hidden. The island was already unplottable, invisible to Muggle eyes, and layered with more wards and concealment spells than any place Sirius had ever been, with the possible exception of Hogwarts. He spared a bit of grudging respect for Mundungus Fletcher for tracking the place down. If luck favored them in the next few hours, they would be taking out Voldemort's largest stronghold south of London.

Fletcher whispered an anchoring spell under his breath, and the boat lurched to an abrupt stop. There was a thump and a bit of muffled swearing from James, who had apparently banged a sensitive spot against the mast. 

"Shh." Fletcher let go of the tiller and bent down to retrieve his broom. "We're here. Can you feel the anti-Apparition wards?"

Sirius concentrated for a moment and felt it: the faint shiver of magic along his skin, barely more tangible than the fog. He swept his arm out in a circle. Two feet behind him, the shivery feeling stopped. They were right at the edge of the wards, then, a quarter of a mile from shore. Unless the Death Eaters had changed their perimeter since the last time Fletcher had scouted the place… Well, there was nothing they could do about it in any case. They couldn't take the boats in any closer, the incoming tide was too strong. Sirius rose cautiously to his feet, mounted his broom, and tried not to think about flying face first into a cliff.

Pushing off from a rocking boat was a tricky business, and the battering wind didn't make it any easier. Sirius wobbled like a clumsy First-year, but managed to recover without pitching himself into the water. James took off without the slightest hitch, the poncy show-off, but Moody took two tries, and Fletcher actually splashed his feet in the water before rising up to join them. Sirius hoped that the fog would hide his smirk.

Flying blind was just as unnerving as sailing blind, but at least Sirius no longer felt seasick. He gripped his broomstick tightly, kept an eye on Fletcher's flapping cloak, and hoped that the other boats had arrived safely. It would be a fine joke if they touched down on the island to discover there was only the four of them to face off against twenty Death Eaters and an unknown number of Dark Creatures.

Fletcher swooped downwards. Sirius followed, and found himself bathed in daylight. Well, twilight, actually, but after the fog it seemed painfully bright. There was no transition -- one moment he'd been smothered in gray, the next moment he was hovering under a cloudless sky, looking down at blue and green and white and brown. Sirius glanced over his shoulder and saw a wall of thick, roiling mist a few feet behind him, stretching out left and right as far as he could see.

Below him, the island jutted from the waves, all sheer cliffs and sharp, jagged rocks. It was just as Fletcher had described: barren except for a few patches of scrubby grass and a couple of gnarled, stunted trees flanking a narrow strip of pebbled beach. A flock of gulls milled about near the high tide line, squawking irritably at each other. The waves smashed against the rocks with brutal force, sending explosions of white spray high enough to spatter Sirius' boots as he brought his broom up alongside James and Moody. There was only one structure: a square, flat-topped tower made of matte black stone, with narrow slits for windows. The walls were too smooth and seamless to have been built the Muggle way. Voldemort must've put it up when he took the place over.

Flyers were emerging from the mist-wall, red Auror robes snapping in the wind alongside the Hit Wizards' midnight-blue garb. Sirius knew most of the faces, at least by sight, but a few were unfamiliar. He pulled his wand out, and saw that everyone else was doing the same. The island seemed quiet enough, but there was no telling when someone might start blasting curses from the tower, and they were all horribly exposed as they descended, with the clear sky at their backs.

Sirius landed at the high tide line and trudged up the beach toward James and Moody, who were putting their brooms down in the shelter of a convenient boulder. Sirius dropped his in the same spot and clapped James on the shoulder.

"So far, so good, huh?"

"A little too good, if you ask me," Moody grumbled. "Why aren't they attacking? They must've seen us coming. We should've been dodging hexes all the way down."

"Stop moaning," said James. "You know, most people are grateful not be attacked when they're trying to maneuver a broom into landing on sloping ground in a high wind."

Moody kept scowling. "I just like to know where my enemies are, that's all. Constant vigilance."

"Constant paranoia is more like it." James grinned, but his eyes were wary, and Sirius was sure that he felt at least some fraction of his partner's concern. Sirius felt it too, a cold, unpleasant prickling at the back of his neck. Once again, he found himself wishing desperately for Remus' steady presence at his back. He looked around the beach, noting Anita talking with Frank Longbottom a few paces away, Tom and Myra Bones checking their brooms, Cadmus Flint and Paul Parkinson looking around with identical grim expressions. Even Fletcher had paired off, having tracked down Arabella Figg, who'd come in another boat. 

_Not fair,_ he thought, well aware of his own childishness. _Everyone's got a partner except me._

A gull marched past him, stopping a few feet away to poke its beak into a clump of rotting seaweed. Sirius kicked a pebble at it. It hopped aside and fixed him with a hostile, beady glare before returning to its exploration of the seaweed. Sirius' sense of unease grew more intense. He looked up and down the beach. There were at least fifty gulls strutting around.

"Uh, folks…"

Moody gave him a sharp look. "What is it, Black?"

"Don't birds usually get scared and fly away when a bunch of humans on broomsticks come down on top of them?"

The gull flapped its wings and gave a shrill, furious shriek. Its neck stretched upwards and its head flattened. The wings shrank, and the grimy gray-and-white feathers turned dark and glossy. The shriek became a hiss, and then a six-foot-long black serpent writhed among the stones where the bird had been.

"Stupefy!" Sirius shouted. The serpent collapsed into a limp coil, but the effect lasted only a couple of seconds. Then it twitched, lifted its diamond-shaped head off the ground and slithered toward Sirius with startling speed.

Sirius fell back a step and bumped into James, who also had his wand out. "Stupefy!" they yelled together. That did the trick: the force of the combined spells actually blasted the serpent a couple of feet into the air; it fell back to the ground, scattering pebbles and bits of seaweed when it struck, and lay still.

There was no time to savor the victory. All over the beach, seagulls were transforming into serpents and attacking every witch and wizard in sight.

"They're kelpies!" somebody shouted. "Bridle them!"

"That only works if they're in horse shape!" Sirius cast three more Stunning spells in quick succession, stopping a thin, blue-green snake just as it began to loop itself around his ankles. "You have to stun them until the stay down!"

His broom was only a few feet away. Sirius stepped toward it, and yet another kelpie darted to intercept him. He tried to step over it, which proved to be a mistake: just as he lifted his right foot, the creature coiled its tail around his left leg and yanked, toppling him over. He managed to hold on to his wand as he fell, but casting a Stunning spell on something that was currently wrapped around his shin seemed like a bad idea. Sirius swore and kicked out with his free foot, aiming for the kelpie's head. Unfortunately, a snake-shaped kelpie appeared to have all the same properties as a real snake, which meant that kicking it only served to hack it off. It hissed, flicked its wriggly forked tongue, and sank an impressive pair of curved yellow fangs into Sirius' leg.

Sirius swore, gripped the kelpie by the neck and tried to pull it off, but it was surprisingly strong and too thick to get a decent grip on. After a short and thoroughly unsuccessful struggle, Sirius surrendered to the inevitable and raised his wand.

"Stupefy-stupefy-stupefy!" Even with the kelpie's body absorbing most of the spell, it felt like a giant hammer smashing down on his leg, but at least it worked. The kelpie went limp, and Sirius was able to pry its fangs out of his thigh. Actually getting the bloody thing off him was going to take time, however, and already there were two more slithering toward him. Sirius tried a Body Bind on one and found that it worked on the first attempt, but trying to pronounce "Petrificus Totalus" with a ten-foot snake bearing down on him seemed like more trouble than it was worth. He stunned the second one and kept his wand up, waiting for the next attack, but none came. Sirius sat up, braced one hand on a rock behind him, and looked around.

The ground was littered with unconscious kelpies, all in serpent form. A few were still twitching. A number of very irritated Aurors and Hit Wizards prowled up and down the beach, stunning anything that looked too lively. Sirius saw a few people nursing injuries, but at least everyone was on their feet. Well, everyone except himself. 

"I see you've found a new girlfriend." James bent over him, grinning. His hair was even messier than usual and his glasses were askew, but he otherwise he looked undamaged. "You seem very close. Shall I leave you two alone?"

"Nah." Sirius glared down at the kelpie that was still wrapped around his leg, grabbed it by the tail and began uncoiling it. "I don't like her, she's too clingy."

His leg was numb from the knee down, and the two punctures left by the kelpie's fangs were bleeding sluggishly. Sirius cast a quick Incruentus to staunch the bleeding and climbed to his feet. The leg bore his weight well enough, though he suspected it was going to hurt like hell any minute now.

"If kelpie bites are poisonous," he grumbled, "don't tell me."

"This makes no sense." Anita stood a few feet away from them, poking a particularly large and garishly patterned serpent with her foot. "Kelpies are solitary creatures. You never even see two together except in mating season. What are they all doing here?"

"Voldemort's bidding," Fletcher said grimly. "I warned you he's learned to control Dark Creatures, didn't I?"

There was a rather tense silence after that. Was it Sirius' imagination, or was everyone giving him pointed looks? He glared back and resisted the urge to shout "Remus is not a Dark Creature!" at the top of his voice. It probably wouldn't go over well. Hell, he couldn't even convince Remus, so how likely was it that the rest of the world would listen?

"Sirius?" James was frowning at him through dirt-flecked glasses. "Are you all right?"

"Fine." Sirius bounced up and down on the balls of his feet to show how fine he was. The movement sent a twinge of pain down his leg, but he met James' concerned gaze without wincing. "Perfect. Raring to go." He looked over James' shoulder at Moody, whose left sleeve was torn and stained with blood. "Happy now, Moody? We've been attacked."

"Too easy," Moody grunted.

James rolled his eyes. "Some people are never satisfied."

* * *

They encountered no more creatures, Dark or otherwise, as they hiked across the island. They did encounter a couple of Distracting Charms -- one of the junior Aurors actually wandered off in a random direction and walked face-first into a boulder before they caught up with him -- and one Dragonfire Hex that would've wiped out half the team if Anita hadn't spotted the tripwire that triggered it. When the base of the tower came into view, Fletcher had them split up into smaller groups and spread out in a wide semic

ircle covering the three visible entrances. 

"Remember, no stupid heroics," he growled with a totally unwarranted glare in Sirius' direction. "They must know we're here by now, and once we get inside it's likely to get ugly. We don't know what sort of nasty surprises Voldemort's built into that tower, but the Death Eaters do. Look sharp, stay with your team, and keep your Defensive Charms up. I want this place secured before it gets dark."

Sirius looked west, where the sun was a tiny sliver of orange above the horizon.

"No problem," he said cheerfully and limped after James and Moody as they moved into their assigned position opposite the main entrance. He was sharply aware of the flat, open terrain all around the tower, offering no cover at all for the attackers. Defensive charms were no use at all against Avada Kedavra. Their best hope would be to move fast and hope the Death Eaters had rotten aim. Sirius rubbed his injured leg, grimacing at the answering stab of pain. He was probably all right for a short sprint, he decided. And once the fighting started, the speed of his wand would matter a lot more than the speed of his feet.

And then Fletcher gave the signal and there was no time to worry anymore, no time to do anything but move. Sirius ran, trying to simultaneously watch the tower ahead of him, the ground right in front of him, and the other wizards moving alongside him. His leg threatened to buckle under him a couple of times, but he kept his footing and was only a few paces behind James and Moody when Moody blasted open the door.

The ground floor of the tower was a single square chamber with bare walls, a high oak-beamed ceiling and a curving staircase at the back. It contained no furniture, no decorations and, more to the point, no Death Eaters.

"Uhm…" James turned around in a circle and used the tip of his wand to push up his glasses, which had slid down to the tip of his nose while he'd been running. "There's nobody here."

"A brilliant observation." Sirius walked over to the staircase and brushed his hand along the top of the banister. His fingers came away clean. "They couldn't have been gone long; the place isn't even dusty."

"So where is everyone?" That was Anita, coming in though one of the smaller doors with Longbottom at her side and the rest of her team trailing behind. "Did they abandon the place?"

"When?" Fletcher stared up at the ceiling as if expecting Death Eaters to start dropping from the beams. "The anti-Apparition wards are still in place. If they took off on brooms or flying carpets, we would've seen them."

"Maybe they left before we arrived," James suggested. Fletcher shook his head irritably.

"They've been here for almost a year, why would they leave now? It's not as if they knew we were comi--" He broke off abruptly. His face went pale. "Or did they?"

Sirius was getting that shivery feeling down the back of his neck again. "I think we should get out of here."

A harsh, whip-crack sound echoed through the room, accompanied by a flash of light and a cry of pain. One of the Aurors from Anita's team had tried to step back outside, only to be thrown backwards into the room. A curtain of crackling blue light filled the doorway, shooting off tiny hissing sparks whenever anyone got to near it. Sirius spun around to look at the other two doors and found that they, too, were glowing. Even the windows were blocked, though they were too narrow to climb through.

"Fuck." Moody stabbed his wand at the nearest window. "Finite Incantatem!" Nothing happened. "Does anyone recognize this spell?"

"Afraid not." Sirius walked back to the main door, stopping just out of arm's reach from the weird glow. It gave off no heat or smell, but the air in front of it vibrated with a low, almost subliminal hum. Sirius reached out with one hand, then jerked his hand back as the door spat a tiny cloud of sparks at him. He tried an Alohomora, just for form's sake, and wasn't surprised when nothing happened. "James?"

"Never seen anything like it." James stood close to a window, one hand raised to shield his eyes from the sparks. "Get back," he shouted to the people still outside. "It's a trap!"

"Do you think we could blast our way out?" Anita asked. "Blow a hole in the wall, maybe?" 

"I suppose it's worth a try." Sirius rapped his knuckles against the wall next to him.

There was a deep, rumbling sound, like an avalanche on a distant mountainside. The floor shuddered. Stone chips and wooden splinters rained from the ceiling.

"Whoa…" Sirius took a shaky step backwards. "I didn't do that."

There was another tremor, stronger than the first. A jagged crack split one of the walls from floor to ceiling, and one of the window panes shattered, spraying a shower of broken glass over Anita and Longbottom, who staggered back with their arms shielding their faces. The ceiling beams creaked ominously.

"Shield charm!" Moody bellowed. "Above our heads, count of three: one… two… THREE!"

Sirius raised his wand and chanted the spell. He could barely hear himself, or the others, over the rumble of the trembling walls. The floor was pitching so hard now, he had to go down on one knee to keep from toppling over. But he felt the shield taking shape as his own spell snapped into place alongside the rest, forming an invisible but solid dome of magic ten feet above his head. When the tower shook again, the loosened debris bounced off like rain off a tin roof.

A chunk of granite the size of a melon smashed into the center of the shield and shattered into smaller pieces. Sirius' wand hummed like a tuning fork. He could feel the vibration all the way down his arm. He braced his free hand on the floor and muttered a reinforcing charm, just in time to absorb the impact as one of the ceiling beams came down in two pieces.

Someone swore. Somebody else gasped in pain. Sirius couldn't decide which sentiment he agreed with more. The tower groaned and swayed, more cracks spreading through the walls, ever-larger pieces of stone crashing down. Sirius' arm felt like lead, and his wand grew blister-hot in his hand. He could feel each blow on the shield as an answering shudder deep in his bones. He didn't even realize he'd bitten through his lip until he saw the splattered drops of blood on the floor in front of him.

A section of the wall crumbled away, leaving a long, narrow gap. A gust of wind howled in, spraying rain across the floor and rapidly cooling the room. Sirius groaned as yet more weight settled on the shield, but at the same time he felt a surge of hope. The gap was free of the blue glow that blocked the doors and windows, and it was large enough for a single person to fit through.

"There's our exit," Moody announced, sounding as if he'd expected it all along. "All right, everyone, when I call your name, go! And if I spot anyone dawdling, I'll hex you myself. Flint… Thomas… Chelsea…"

He was sending the weaker, less experienced wizards out first, leaving the stronger ones behind to maintain the shield. Sirius could feel the magic flickering and shifting above him as the spell reshaped itself to fill the void after each departing witch and wizard. Sweat soaked through his robes despite the chilling wind, and the muscles in his shoulder cramped. He wasn't sure he could lower his arm even if he'd wanted to. He kept chanting the reinforcing charm over and over, and gave silent thanks that he wasn't the one who had to stand there and decide which name to call out next.

"Longbottom... Parkinson... Fletcher... Potter..."

Sirius breathed a sigh of relief as he watched James duck through the gap, then dodged aside just in time to avoid getting his head caved in by a Bludger-sized chunk of stone. The shield was fragmenting, he realized, buckling under the weight of the accumulating debris. There were four wizards left inside now: himself, Moody, Arabella Figg and Anita; Sirius didn't think that three would be enough to maintain the charm. The next name called would almost certainly be the last survivor.

Moody must've had the same thought, because he hesitated for the first time before finally calling out, "Figg!"

Arabella climbed slowly to her feet, still holding her wand raised above her head.

"Alastor--"

"Move your bloody arse, Figg, I don't have all day!"

Arabella looked as if she had a great deal more to say, but all she did was set her jaw and turn toward the opening in the wall. Sirius took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

_Here it comes..._

He felt it, the moment when Arabella left and the shield shattered. It hurt more than the avalanche of stone and wood that cascaded down on him, crushing him under its weight. He tried to crawl, but something unbearably heavy landed across his back, and he found he couldn't move. Thunder roared in his ears and bright spots of color filled his vision. 

_Ah, well, it was a good run while it las--_

* * *

There was fog again, everywhere, but it was different this time -- warm and still and not at all threatening. He floated in it, weightless and numb. It was a wonderfully restful feeling. He would've been content to just stay there and enjoy it, but somebody kept calling his name.

"Sirius?" The voice seemed to be coming from a great distance away, yet somebody was patting his hand. "Come on, Sirius, I saw you move. If you can hear me, say something obnoxious."

"Sod off," he muttered, but it was too late. The fog was receding, and taking the restfulness with it. He was back in his body again, and it _hurt_. And the voice that had made him come back was making joyful whooping noises, which struck Sirius as a classic case of adding insult to injury. Some people had no consideration at all.

Sirius opened his eyes and saw a white blur. He blinked, and the blur became a tiled ceiling. "Where am I?"

"St. Mungo's." It was Peter's voice, coming from somewhere to his left. Sirius turned his head -- a surprisingly difficult maneuver -- and saw a dark, indistinct shape hovering at his side. He had to blink again to make his eyes focus at the closer distance. It took a ridiculous amount of effort just to move his eyelids up and down, and his big reward for it was the sight of Peter's pudgy face smiling down at him uncertainly.

"You've been here five days. And you're not supposed to move, talk or get excited, so keep still now or the nurses will kick me out."

Sirius was happy with that. Just keeping still hurt quite enough -- sharp shooting pains in every part of his body. The sensation was familiar, and after a few moments' concentration he identified it as the effect of Skele-Gro potion. Recognition triggered memory, flooding him with disturbing images: crumbling black walls, an exploding window, splashes of blood on the floor…

He tried to remember who was in the tower with him. James had gone, he remembered that much, but he couldn't recall if he ever actually saw Arabella leaving, and then there was Moody... and Anita...

He had a thousand questions to ask, but he wasn't sure he could draw breath to speak. His chest felt as if he was regrowing all his ribs from scratch. Fortunately, Peter knew him well enough to provide the answers unprompted.

"James is all right. He and Remus have been in and out of here every day. We've all been taking turns sitting with you." Peter's smile broadened into a genuine grin. "Boy, won't they be jealous when they find out you woke up on my shift!"

_What about the others?_ Sirius wanted to ask. All that came out was, "…Others?..."

Peter understood. "Moody's all right. Better off then you are, even. I went past his room last night, and he was sitting up and cussing at the nurses. Tough old bastard… I don't know about Arabella; I heard she had a great big chunk of wall come down on her head just as she was running out. She's in the intensive care ward, only family allowed in. And..." He hesitated, biting his lip, and Sirius felt suddenly cold. "I'm sorry, Sirius. Anita's dead."

"Oh." Sirius turned away to stare at the ceiling again. The clean white tiles were restful to look at, and if his vision blurred again, well, it was only a ceiling, right?

"Sirius?"

Anita had stood less than ten feet away from him when the tower came down. There was absolutely no reason for her to be dead while he was alive. It was bad luck, that's all, nothing but pure chance, and how the fuck would he ever look Tobias McKinnon in the face ever again?

"Sirius? Are you… do you want a drink of water, or something?"

Yes, of course. A drink of water would fix everything. "Yeah, thanks."

Peter brought him a glass with a straw in it. The cold water did feel good going down, but Sirius pushed the glass away after a few sips because feeling good seemed blasphemous somehow. He knew it made no sense. He didn't care.

"I'm sorry." Peter looked pale and nervous. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and his hair needed a wash. Sirius wondered how long he'd been sitting there at his bedside. "Maybe I shouldn't have told you so soon."

"Yes, you should've." Sirius found that he could manage complete sentences if he kept his voice low and his breaths shallow. "I wanted to know. Thank you."

"Yes, well…" Peter ducked his head, hiding his face from view. "I should go and let somebody know you're awake." He turned away from the bed, but Sirius reached out and grabbed his sleeve.

"Wait." Something ground painfully inside his wrist. He flinched, gritted his teeth and held on. "Don't go yet."

Peter darted a nervous glance toward the door. "They made me promise--"

"Just a few minutes." He wasn't ready yet to deal with the healers fussing over him, with their invasive spells and well-meant advice, pouring potions down his throat and telling him he was lucky to be alive. "You can tell them later."

"All right. A few minutes." Peter sat down again, sliding his chair closer to the bed, and gave a faint shadow of the mischievous grin Sirius remembered from their school days. "But if we get into trouble," he said, "I'll tell them it was all your idea."

"What else is new?" Sirius tried to grin back, but his heart wasn't in it. "Peter… do you know what happened?"

Peter's grin faded. "I know what James told me."

"They knew we were coming." Sirius clenched his fingers around the edges of the mattress, ignoring the throbbing pain in his hands. "They had time to clear everything and everyone off that island, to place the spells on the tower, to gather all those kelpies on the beach… Someone told them we were coming."

"Yeah…" Peter shifted uneasily in his seat. "Look, Sirius, this isn't a good time to--"

"It couldn't have been just anyone. This was a top secret mission. Nobody knew except Dumbledore, Crouch, and those of us who actually went."

_And Remus._ He hated himself for even having such a thought, but it wouldn't go away. Remus, who knew about the raid and didn't go. Not safe, he said. If Voldemort had really learned to control Dark Creatures, if he'd taught the Death Eaters how to do it, then it wasn't safe for a werewolf to be there. But there had been no Death Eaters on the island, and the kelpies had still attacked. Whoever controlled them had done it from a distance.

Which had nothing to do with Remus, who was _not_ a Dark Creature, and under no one's control but his own.

Peter was gnawing at his thumbnail, a habit he had supposedly dropped back in fourth year. "Sirius… don't worry about it now, okay? I'm going to go talk to the healers now."

There was something off about his voice, his posture, the way he wouldn't quite meet Sirius' eyes...

"Peter. You know something."

"What? No, of course not, I just--"

"Don't lie to me, Peter, you know you're no good at lying. What is it? Did they find the spy?" Not Remus. It couldn't be Remus. Why wouldn't Peter look at him, damn it? It couldn't be Remus...

Peter sighed and clasped his hands in his lap. There was a smudge of blood on his thumb where he'd bitten the nail to the quick. 

"I suppose I might as well tell you. You'll find out soon enough. After the raid, James and Frank Longbottom went to see Tobias McKinnon. To tell him about Anita."

Sirius winced. He could recall far too many occasions over the past few years when James had gone to deliver news of an Auror's death to the family. Such days usually ended with Sirius, Remus and Peter delivering an unconscious James into Lily's care sometime after the pubs in Later Alley had closed. James hardly ever drank, but when he did, he was serious about it.

"How did Tobias take it?"

Peter stared down at his clenched hands, head bowed to hide his expression. "Tobias is dead. They found him in the back of the flat. He'd been tortured."

For a few seconds, Sirius could only stare in horrified incomprehension. Then the implications sank in.

"No. She didn't-- she wouldn't have told him."

Lily had told James about Anita's habit of telling Tobias about her missions, and James had confronted Anita in private. It had not, apparently, been a pleasant conversation, but Anita had promised not to do it again, and James hadn't reported her. If she hadn't kept her promise...

"She wouldn't have told him," Sirius repeated stubbornly. "Not about something that big. And even if she did… Tobias wouldn't have talked. He wouldn't give up his _wife._"

"You don't know what they did to him," Peter said softly. "And I don't know, either, but James… he wouldn't talk about it. Not to me or Remus, not to Lily. And… don't tell him I told you this, okay?" He waited for Sirius' nod before continuing. "Lily says he's been having nightmares, every night since then. He's been sleeping on the couch in the living room, but she could hear him anyway. Screaming and-- and being sick in the toilet afterwards. Whatever Tobias might've told them, it wasn't his fault."

"Not Anita. He wouldn't give up Anita."

"I'm sorry." Peter hauled himself out of the chair with a weary sigh. "I shouldn't have told you. You're not well."

"Come off it, Peter. I'm injured, not mentally deficient. This is all wrong."

"You need to rest. And I need to go and talk to the healers." Peter walked to the door and stopped there, fidgeting. "You know what I keep wondering?" he asked.

"What?"

"How the Death Eaters knew to go after Tobias in the first place." And then he was gone, before Sirius had a chance to answer.

He didn't get much opportunity to think after that. Healers trooped in and out, muttering spells and pouring additional doses of Skele-Gro down his throat. Nurses came bearing bland hospital food and clean pajamas. A pretty girl in crisp white robes gave him a bed bath, but he was too distracted to properly enjoy it.

James and Lily and Remus visited, first all in a group, then in shifts. Lily brought Harry, who charmed all the nurses and ate the vanilla custard from Sirius' lunch tray. James confirmed Peter's story about the McKinnons, but refused to go into detail. With typical James logic, he had somehow managed to conclude that the whole mess was his fault.

"I should've reported her," he said. "I didn't want to get her into trouble. But any amount of trouble would've been better than this."

"You had no reason to distrust her," Sirius argued. "She made a promise. She knew how big this raid was. She damn well should've known the danger she was putting Tobias in, not to mention all of us. And Tobias -- he had a choice too."

"No, he didn't." James turned a sickly shade of green, as he always did these days whenever Tobias McKinnon was mentioned. "He was only human, Sirius. It wasn't his fault."

People said that a lot.

At night, after the nurses shooed out the visitors and before exhaustion overcame the ache in his bones, he mulled over Peter's question: how did the Death Eaters know to go after Tobias in the first place? How did they know Anita had ever told him anything? Giles and Peter had been there when Lily found out. Lily had told James, and James had grumbled to Sirius and Remus after his talk with Anita. No one else knew. Or at least, no one else was supposed to have known...

Maybe Tobias had let something slip to the neighbors. Maybe someone had eavesdropped when James confronted Anita. Sirius spent hours awake in the dark, pondering the maybes, and the nurses tut-tutted about the dark circles under his eyes.

Three days after he woke up, Sirius limped out of St. Mungo's, with James and Remus serving as human crutches on either side of him. The healers grumbled about it, but they couldn't stop him from going, and he was not about to lie on his back counting the ceiling tiles while everyone else was attending the McKinnons' funeral.

It was a Muggle burial, in a cemetery in Hampstead, where the rest of Tobias' family lived. The two groups of mourners stood apart from each other, watching the coffins being lowered into their adjacent graves, and didn't mix. On one side, Tobias' parents and his sister, some old friends from Cambridge, the barristers he'd worked with at Lincoln's Inn. They all looked confused and shell-shocked. Sirius wondered how much they'd been told, and by whom. On the other side, a crowd of hard-faced Aurors stood in an awkward huddle, looking strangely underdressed in their Muggle suits and dresses. It was an unbearably hot afternoon, the worst they'd had all summer. Sirius had never had any trouble with Muggle clothes before, in fact he preferred them to robes, but that day his bespoke suit felt like a straightjacket, and his tie kept trying to strangle him no matter how often he tugged at the knot. He leaned heavily on Remus' shoulder and fought against the urge to fidget, partly from nerves, partly to relieve the growing ache in his legs and back. His bones had all mended, but he still felt brittle and unsteady, and a few hours on his feet were enough to leave him dizzy with exhaustion.

Somehow, he managed to remain upright long enough to hear the end of the service, and to murmur meaningless condolences to the McKinnons. Remus steered him away as soon as good manners allowed, elbowing a path through the crowd toward the cemetery gate.

"Come on," he whispered, "are you up to Apparating? We'll go straight home."

"I'll manage." Sirius pulled at his tie again. His shirt collar was soaked with sweat. He didn't even care if he splinched himself, he just wanted to get away. "God, I hate this suit."

"You can burn it when we get back," Remus promised. "Let's just get out of si--"

"Hello, Lupin."

"Mundungus." Remus stopped, which forced Sirius to do the same. "It's good to see you. How's Arabella?"

"Recovering." Mundungus Fletcher stood with his fists clenched at his sides and his head thrust forward at an aggressive angle, looking rather like a hippogriff that had just been mortally insulted. His black suit was about two sizes too large, and the shirt he wore under it was an acidic shade of yellow. Just looking at him made Sirius' head hurt. "She should be out of St. Mungo's in another week or so."

"I'm glad to hear it," Remus said mildly. Fletcher's glare grew even darker.

"Are you, really? I wonder."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sirius demanded. Fletcher appeared to notice him for the first time.

"Nothing."

"Like hell." Sirius tried to take a step forward, but he was relying on Remus for support, and Remus wasn't moving. "You've got a problem with Remus? Come out and say what is, then. Or are you backpedaling because you know you're full of shit?"

"Am I?" Fletcher bared his teeth in an unpleasant grin. "I've just been thinking how quickly everyone jumped to blame Tobias and Anita for what happened. Convenient, I suppose, seeing as how they're dead." He shuffled forward a few steps until he was almost toe to toe with Remus, who continued to stand his ground. "But I can't help remembering that there was someone else who knew about the Channel raid, someone who was supposed to be there and then, somehow, wasn't. Why did you stay away, Lupin? Since when does Black go on missions without you?"

"Despite what some people seem to think," Remus said softly, "Sirius and I are not joined at the hip. As for why I stayed away, that's none of your concern. Albus accepted my reasons."

"The reasons you gave him, you mean."

"They're the only reasons I have." Remus sounded faintly irritated now, which meant he was furious. Sirius would've ducked and ran, hearing that tone directed at him, but Fletcher was oblivious. "And even if I wanted to discuss them with you, now would not be the time. Excuse us, please." And he finally moved, keeping one careful hand under Sirius' elbow as he stepped past Fletcher toward the gate. Fletcher made no move to stop them, but the look on his face was thunderous.

"Haven't read the papers today, have you, Black?" He growled once Sirius and Remus were a few paces away. "If I were you, I'd take a look at the _Daily Prophet_ when I got home."

"What's he blathering about?" Sirius muttered under his breath. "You haven't been in the papers lately, have you, Moony?"

"Haven't you heard?" Remus gave him a sideways look. "I've won _Witch Weekly_'s Most Charming Smile award."

The ducked behind the cemetery wall, out of sight of the Muggles, and Apparated into their living room. By then, Sirius' legs would no longer bend, and the muscles in his lower back had cramped into iron-hard knots. He collapsed sideways onto the couch, growling obscenities and batting irritably at Remus' helpful hands.

"Bugger off, Moony, I can remove my own bloody shoes!"

"Of course you can." Remus shrugged and retreated into the bedroom. A few minutes later he reappeared, having exchanged his suit for a pair of drawstring trousers and a lightweight shirt, and sat down to watch as Sirius struggled to untie his shoelaces without bending his knees.

"Want help with that?" he asked after a while.

"No." Sirius scowled at him. "What I want is to turn Mundungus Fletcher into a cockroach and stomp on him."

Remus raised one eyebrow, but did not dispute the sentiment. "He won't be the last person to say it, you know. He probably isn't even the first -- just the first to do it to my face."

"It's bullshit."

"I know. But given a choice, most people would rather blame me than Anita and Tobias. And honestly, can you blame them?"

"Yes!" Sirius glared furiously at his shoelaces, which, instead of dutifully untying themselves when he pulled, had somehow turned into twin Gordian knots. "Fuck. I hate this. Remus... do you think it was the McKinnons?"

Remus sighed. "I don't know."

"Do you think…" Sirius took a few deep breaths, struggling to put into words the question that had been haunting him for days now. "Do you think any of us would've done it?"

"Done what?"

"Talked. If somebody hurt us enough. Tobias adored Anita. And he wasn't weak, or a coward. But he talked. Do you think anyone would?"

"I don't know."

"What if it was James and Lily? Or you and me. Or--"

"Padfoot." Remus knelt next to the sofa, looking up into Sirius' face with frowning concern. "Stop it. I don't know. You don't know. There's only one way to find out, and I hope to God no one we know ever gets faced with that choice again. And you're not going to make anything better by sitting here and brooding about it. Enough." He pulled his wand from his pocket and tapped it lightly against Sirius' shoes. "There, they're untied now. Get out of this stupid suit and get some rest."

An owl hooted loudly outside. Remus glanced over his shoulder at the window.

"Post is here," he said. "I'll get it."

He walked out of the room, and leaving Sirius alone to wrestle with his shoes. They proved to be formidable opponents, but he managed to get them off without help, which partially made up for the defeat with the laces. Sirius sank back onto the sofa pillows and struggled to catch his breath, determined to appear calm and collected when Remus returned with the mail.

But Remus himself looked anything but calm when he reappeared. His face was sickly-pale and his eyes were wide with shock. He was clutching the afternoon edition of the _Daily Prophet_ in one hand, staring fixedly at the front page.

"Remus?" Sirius braced one hand on the back of the sofa and pushed himself up to a sitting position. "What is it, what's wrong?"

Remus just stood there, frozen, until Sirius began to think he hadn't heard. Then he mutely handed over the paper and turned away, hiding his face from Sirius' sight. With a cold, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Sirius looked down at the front page.

**WEREWOLF PACK EXTERMINATED IN YORKSHIRE RAID!**

The headline was twice the usual size, and printed in garish red. The article beneath it was more conventionally typeset, but no less lurid.

__

A pack of three werewolves living on a farm outside York were killed last night, after firing numerous curses and jinxes at a team of Aurors who were attempting to bring them in for questioning. Wilfred Glendon, Lawrence Talbot and Talbot's wife Angela had long been suspected of practicing Dark Arts and collaborating with Him-who-must-not-be-named in a number of violent attacks throughout Yorkshire during the past year. When a team of twelve Aurors arrived at their farm with a search warrant, the werewolves refused to open their door, choosing instead to attack from the inside.

"They were in a frenzy," said Jacob Springer, the leader of the Auror team. "Wild, like beasts. There was no reasoning with them. We had no choice but to fight back."

Following the raid, a search of the house revealed a number of proscribed books and Dark Artifacts, which confirmed the Ministry's suspicion--

The photograph showed a group of grim-looking Aurors standing shoulder to shoulder in front of a perfectly ordinary looking farmhouse. In the background, a pair of white-robed wizards were carrying a body away on a stretcher.

"God, Remus, I'm so sorry." Sirius let the paper fall to the floor. Just the sight of it made him feel ill. "Did you know these people? Were they… were they part of that group you've been meeting with the past few months?"

"I thought I knew them," Remus said in a hollow voice, "but apparently I was wrong. See, I thought they were kind quiet, people who wouldn't hurt a flobberworm. But here are twelve Aurors testifying that they were wild beasts, and Aurors know these things, don't they? Naturally, a group -- sorry, a _pack_ -- of werewolves would behave like frenzied animals, even if it is nineteen days until the next full moon. I don't know what I was thinking."

"I'm sorry," Sirius repeated helplessly. He felt like he should be doing something, but he had no idea what, and Remus still wouldn't look at him. "I don't know the Aurors in the Yorkshire division, but they're obviously all idiots."

"Not to mention murderers." Remus' voice was hard and bitter. Sirius found himself shivering.

"Moony--"

"Not now, Sirius." Remus turned and marched out the door, hands clenched at his sides. A few seconds later, the front door squeaked open and then slammed shut.

Sirius looked down at the paper on the floor. Jacob Springer and his team glared back at him. The were holding up books and assorted magical gadgets -- presumably the evidence collected in the raid. The photograph wasn't clear enough for Sirius to make out the details.

"What the hell were you idiots thinking?" Sirius muttered at them. Springer glowered and ran one hand through his hair in a gesture that disturbingly reminded Sirius of James.

Those werewolves had to be innocent. Sirius was sure of it. If they had really been working for Voldemort, Remus would've noticed. It was Remus' job to notice these things. He would've done something.

_"I will not spy on my kind, Sirius."_

It didn't matter. Remus would've done something.

_If he had a choice. If any of them had a choice._

_Voldemort can control Dark Creatures from a distance._

If they were innocent, then a team of Aurors had slaughtered three people for no reason. If they weren't innocent… Sirius wasn't sure which thought made him more ill.

Minutes passed. Remus didn't come back. It occurred to Sirius that he was being selfish, sitting there making faces at the paper while Remus was upset. He struggled to his feet using the lamp next to the sofa for support, and took a couple of shaky steps. It proved to be a mistake. His newly-grown leg bones apparently felt that they had fulfilled their duty for the day by holding him up through the funeral, and saw no reason to meet this new and unexpected demand. Halfway across the room, Sirius stopped, wobbled precariously for a moment, and fell forward with a resounding crash.

"Ow."

He heard footsteps, then the door opening and closing, then more footsteps. Remus' scuffed brown shoes came into view and stopped about three inches from Sirius' face.

"Sirius, what do you think you're doing?"

"Looking for you," Sirius mumbled into the carpet. "To see if I could help."

"I see. Thank you, then." The shoes shuffled sideways a little. Strong hands slid under Sirius' arms and hauled him up from the floor. "I'll tell you what, Padfoot -- why don't you get some rest, and _then_ we'll see if you can help, all right?"

Sirius grudgingly allowed himself to be led into the bedroom, bundled into a pair of pajamas, and put to bed in mid-afternoon like a sulky toddler. He even managed to sleep for a few hours. But his dreams were uneasy, and when he woke, all the unpleasant questions were still there.


	12. Chapter 12

The End of the Beginning by Mariner 

  
  
**Chapter 12  
Aug 17, 1981**

"I'm going to run out of blood," Ethan grumbled. He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, with his left sleeve rolled up to the elbow, pressing a cotton pad to his forearm. "How much more are you going to need, anyway?"

"A lot." Snape put the hypodermic back in its case and snapped it shut. "In fact, I'm planning to draw half a gallon on Saturday, so drink a lot of fluids for the rest of the week."

"You're kidding, right?" Ethan forced a laugh as he tried to read the nuances in Snape's habitual sneer. "Right?"

"You ask too many stupid questions." Snape's voice was cool and sarcastic, his hands perfectly steady as he put away the needle case and the three freshly-drawn vials of blood. But his posture was just a little too stiff, and a vein in his temple throbbed rapidly, only half concealed by a greasy black fringe. Weeks of close observation had taught Ethan to note these little things, and to interpret their meaning. Severus Snape was more nervous than usual, and that was saying something.

"And you give too many evasive answers." Ethan lifted the pad and stared glumly at the bruise-mottled skin beneath. The needle marks tracked from the crook of his elbow down to his wrist, stopping about an inch above his watchband. "I look like a bloody junkie," he complained.

"And you sound like a bloody nuisance," Snape said irritably. "Take off your shirt."

"Huh?" The sudden change of subject actually rendered Ethan speechless for a few seconds. "What?"

"Did I use insufficiently short words? Which one did you fail to understand? Take… off… your… shirt."

Ethan folded his arms and thrust out his chin. "I want flowers and chocolates first."

Snape glared daggers at him and did not continue the banter. Instead he reached into the pocket where he usually kept his wand and pulled out a polished wooden cube, about three inches on a side. Snape held it in his palm, and rapped the knuckles of his other hand sharply against one side. With a click, the cube's top face slid open to reveal a hollowed-out interior. The box looked smaller than Snape's fist, yet when he reached inside it, his arm disappeared up to the elbow. Snape's narrow face furrowed in concentration as he rummaged inside some hidden but obviously large space. He appeared to be trying to find something specific by feel. Ethan thought he could hear rattling and rustling as invisible items were shuffled about, but that might just have been his imagination filling in the details.

Ethan wondered if the box was an actual interdimensional pocket, or if it just folded ordinary space. He'd done both in his time, so Snape's little trick didn't impress him much. He was just about to say so, just starting to mentally compose an appropriately scathing pronouncement, but the words scattered when he saw what Snape was pulling from the box.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"I don't pretend to know what goes on in your little Muggle mind." Snape put the stethoscope on the desk and dug inside the box again, producing a blood pressure cuff and, after an especially prolonged bout of searching, a mercury thermometer.

"Those are Muggle things," Ethan blurted out, and immediately wished he hadn't. That didn't sound scathing at all, and Snape didn't even dignify it with an answer. Ethan gathered his wits and tried again. "Are you telling me that your oh-so-superior Wizarding World has never come up with a magical way to take a temperature?"

"Don't be absurd," Snape said sharply. "Of course we have. But Lucius almost certainly has ways of knowing what spells I cast in here. Now, are you going to take your damned shirt off or not? I don't have all day."

"You've charmed me into it, you silver-tongued devil, you." Ethan unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off. "There, happy now?"

"Thrilled beyond my wildest dreams," Snape drawled. He was looking at Ethan as if Ethan was a particularly unattractive insect he was about to dissect. Then, abruptly, his eyes went cold, and his mouth uncurled from its habitual sneer. "What's that?" he demanded.

"What's what?" Ethan followed the direction of Snape's gaze, and found himself looking down at his left bicep. "Oh." 

Eyghon's mark stood out dark and ugly against his skin. He hadn't been concealing it on purpose, just as a matter of habit, and the fact that he'd let the habit slip so carelessly now just went to prove how distracted he was. Well, bugger it, he decided. It was none of Snape's business anyway.

"It's a tattoo. Muggle teenagers get them to demonstrate their coolness, rebelliousness against authority, and utter lack of brains. I'm sure you people have your own arcane rituals for the same purpose."

"Actually, we do the exact same thing." Snape sat down on the bed next to Ethan and plugged the stethoscope into his ears. "Inhale."

Ethan sat up straight and obediently sucked in a deep breath. It was hard to sit still. The combination of the stethoscope, the wizard robes and Snape's ugly, ill-tempered face was utterly surreal, and the chestpiece felt like an ice cube against Ethan's skin. He gripped the edge of the bed with both hands and clenched his teeth, struggling against the desire to shiver and the even stronger desire to laugh like a maniac.

"What's wrong with you?" Snape glowered irritably at him. "I believe this is not supposed to hurt."

"I'm fine," Ethan wheezed in a strangled voice.

He managed to maintain his composure for the next several minutes, while Snape brusquely snapped instructions to inhale, exhale, cough, hold his breath, exhale again… Eventually Snape stopped, scribbled something in a small, leather-bound notebook, and wrapped the blood pressure cuff around Ethan's left bicep. Ethan studied him dubiously.

"Do you actually know how to work this?"

"It came with an instruction manual. As did this." He held up the thermometer. "Do you think you can shut up for four minutes, or do I have shove it up your arse? This model works both ways."

"Give me that." Ethan snatched the thermometer from Snape's hand. Snape made a barely audible noise that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.

"Well?" Ethan demanded when it was safe to speak again. "Give it to me straight, doc, will I live?"

"Not if you keep annoying me." Snape clapped his notebook shut and began to pack his supplies back into their box. "Your blood pressure is higher than it's supposed to be." He sounded as if he suspected Ethan of elevating it on purpose.

"That comes from stress," Ethan told him. "Which, in turn, comes from being kidnapped, poisoned, and held captive by a bunch of sadistic psychopaths. Oh, and the regular torture sessions aren't helping, either."

Snape shrugged. "You have only your own uselessness to blame for that. Really, the Dark Lord has been remarkably generous with you and your pathetic failures. I've seen him kill loyal followers for less."

"I'm doing the best I can!"

"Pity."

That stung more than it should've. Ethan never expected any actual sympathy from Snape, but these slurs on his magical ability were completely uncalled-for. All his spells had worked exactly as advertised. He was especially proud of his most recent effort: a variation of the standard shielding spells that caused everyone inside the shielded area to be trapped within, rather than merely protected against attacks from without. If Voldemort's enemies were still breathing, it was Voldemort's own damned fault, not his.

"Lucius is planning to see you later today," Snape closed his box with a sharp click of the lid and stowed it back in his pocket. "I suggest you have something promising to show him. If Voldemort kills you for incompetence, I'll have wasted a great deal of time and effort for nothing."

Ethan could think of any number of sarcastic responses to that, but Snape was already making his departure, complete with obligatory dramatic stride and swirling black cloth. As always, Ethan hoped the slimy bastard would get his hem caught in the door as he walked out, and as always, Snape refused to oblige. The door slammed shut without mishap, and Ethan was left alone to listen to the echoing sound of Snape's footsteps receding down the corridor.

"I never have any luck," he complained petulantly to no one in particular, and went to put his shirt back on.

* * *

Malfoy arrived in the evening, a few minutes after the house elf had cringed away with Ethan's dinner dishes. He stood in the center of the room, twirling his wand idly in his fingers, and sneered down at Ethan, who'd been reading by the fireplace. At first glance, his expression looked identical to Snape's, but Ethan had learned to tell the difference. Severus Snape behaved as if Ethan was too stupid, ignorant and ill-mannered to bother having a civil conversation with. Lucius Malfoy behaved as if Ethan was too disgusting to exist.

"Our Lord is displeased with you," he announced. Ethan assumed that was meant to be the royal "we." "But he is willing, in his mercy, to give you one last opportunity to redeem yourself. Have you found a way to get rid of Albus Dumbledore?" There was a mean, anticipatory glint in Malfoy's eyes. No doubt he was already imagining the fun he would have punishing Ethan for his inevitable failure.

"As a matter of fact, I have." Ethan gave him a quick, thin-lipped smile. "It took a while, but I think I've finally tracked down the perfect spell. The Sanguacidulus Transfusion. It's a direct attack, so there are no incompetent demons to botch the job. It can be cast from a distance; it doesn't require a physical link to the victim -- a picture will do; and it kills in under ten seconds, so there's no time for a counterspell. Even if there _was_ a counterspell, which there isn't. It's perfect, see?" He lifted up the book he'd been reading, holding it open for Malfoy's inspection. Malfoy barely glanced at it.

"What does it do?" he demanded.

Ethan indulged himself in a dramatic pause before replying. "It turns the victim's blood to sulfuric acid."

For a fraction of a second, Lucius Malfoy actually looked impressed. But all he said was, "I suppose it might work."

"It will definitely work," Ethan said. "But there's one minor catch."

The wand in Malfoy's hand stilled, its tip pointed squarely at Ethan's chest. "A catch," he repeated, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper. Ethan's skin crawled, but he flashed another smile and kept his gaze fixed steadily on Malfoy's face.

"The spell must be cast by two people working in unison. Which means I'll need an assistant."

This was the risky bit. Ethan felt certain that Voldemort had another Muggle-trained wizard in his service. He'd realized it after he'd completed the work on the reverse shielding spell. The spell couldn't be cast remotely, and Ethan had expected Voldemort or Malfoy to take him to the site so that he could do the work himself. Instead, Malfoy had made him write down the instructions on a sheet of parchment, which he then took away. That meant somebody else must've set the shield, someone with training and at least a little power, but without Ethan's expertise. Ethan could only hope that it wasn't Malfoy or Snape.

If he had an assistant, he'd have a ready-made scapegoat for future failures. He'd be able to stall for time as he trained the other wizard at an appropriately leisurely pace. And stalling for time was Ethan's biggest concern at the moment. On the one hand, he had no intention of actually killing Albus Dumbledore -- not that Ethan cared what happened to the old bastard, but he knew perfectly well that success would put an end to his usefulness, and Voldemort was not just going to thank him and let him go. On the other hand, repeated failures would eventually exhaust the Dark Lord's patience. Snape might effect a rescue before then, or he might not -- Ethan was still not entirely convinced that Snape intended a rescue at all. He had his own ideas for an escape plan, but they were vague and required time. Stalling, therefore was vitally important. Ethan found himself actually holding his breath as he waited for Malfoy's reply.

Malfoy looked as if he just stepped into something unpleasant, but he didn't launch in with the Crucio right away, which Ethan took as a good sign.

"I will inform Our Lord," he announced in a magnanimous tone and marched from the room.

"Gosh." Ethan slumped in his chair as he slowly released the breath he'd been holding. "I can hardly wait."

* * *

For the next two days, nothing happened. Snape arrived to deliver his daily doses of antidote, but if he knew anything about Ethan's request or Voldemort's opinion of it, he gave no sign. The house-elf remained his usual obsequious self, and Malfoy was conspicuous only by his absence. Ethan spent most of his time sitting by the fireplace, browsing through his books, nibbling on the elf-delivered food, and trying not to go too obviously insane.

On the morning of the third day, Lord Voldemort himself put in an appearance.

Ethan scrambled out of his chair, spilling books and notes all over the floor, and shuffled forward on his knees to kiss the hem of Voldemort's robe. 

"You honor me with your presence, My Lord," he proclaimed in what he hoped was a suitably obsequious voice. All this groveling was tiresome and undignified, but painful experience had demonstrated that the consequences of not groveling were a lot worse. "What can this humble Muggle do for you?"

"Humble Muggle?" Voldemort sounded unimpressed. "Useless Muggle is more like it. All these months as my guest, and still you haven't produced the results I need. Tell me, Muggle, why should I continue to let you live?"

"My Lord." Ethan pressed another kiss into the fold of cloth clutched in his fist, and touched his forehead to the floor for good measure. "I believe I have the answer. I have found a--"

"A spell, I know." Voldemort gave a slow, satisfied hiss. "For which you need a partner. Very well. Rise, Muggle."

Ethan climbed stiffly to his feet just in time to see a robed and hooded figure slinking into the room at Voldemort's heels. The newcomer was short and fat, and walked with a hunched, cringing posture that suggested a desperate desire to be somewhere else. The posture was all Ethan had to judge by, since the stranger's face was concealed by a smooth, blank mask.

"This is Wormtail," Voldemort said. "He's been trained in your Muggle Tricks -- isn't that right?" He ran the tip of one clawed finger down the side of the fat man's mask. It made a soft rasping sound that set Ethan's teeth on edge. Wormtail shuddered and seemed to shrink a little inside his robes.

"Y-yes, My Lord," he squeaked. Voldemort gave him a shove and he staggered forward a step, tripping over his too-long robes and narrowly avoiding a fall.

"His abilities are as pathetic as the rest of him, no doubt, but it will be your job to teach him what he needs to know. You have a fortnight to prepare this latest spell of yours. But I warn you…" Voldemort gripped Ethan's chin in one hand and tilted Ethan's head back, forcing him to look directly up into Voldemort's gleaming red eyes. "I've lost patience with your failures, Muggle. If you don't succeed this time, you will not get another chance."

"Yes, My Lord," Ethan said steadily. Two weeks was not as long as he'd hoped for, but longer than he had actually expected to get. And if he couldn't get away by then… well, he'd just have to negotiate, that's all. He'd done it before. If his new assistant was really as wretched as he seemed, deflecting blame wouldn't be difficult.

Voldemort departed, hissing more threats. Ethan gathered up the books and parchments he'd spilled earlier, and returned to his chair.

"I'd offer you a seat," he said to Wormtail, "but I'm afraid there's only the one chair. Unless you care to conjure up your own?"

Watery, pale blue eyes blinked at him through narrow slits in the mask. With Voldemort gone, Wormtail stood a little straighter, without any obvious cringing, though he still looked ridiculous in his Phantom of the Opera get-up. He gazed at Ethan in silence for a few seconds, then pulled out a wand.

"Formasella." The chair that appeared looked a bit rickety. It creaked ominously when Wormtail sat on it, but did not collapse. Ethan tried not to look disappointed.

"So," he said. "Wormtail. Is that a first name or a last name?"

"It's a name." Wormtail's voice now sounded sulky and resentful rather than sniveling. He was sitting up very straight and obviously trying to look dignified, but the effect was spoiled by the fact that his feet didn't quite touch the floor. Ethan grinned at him.

"So what's the mask all about? New fashion trend? What the well-dressed evil minion is wearing this season?"

"Lord Voldemort's orders." Just saying the name was enough to start the small man cringing again. "Look, we're not supposed to talk, all right? Just teach me."

"A little hard to teach if we can't talk," Ethan pointed out. "I have to know what you've learned already before we can start. Who have you been studying with?"

"I can't tell you. Lord Voldemort's orders."

"Lovely." Ethan sighed. "Can you at least tell me how long you've been studying?"

Wormtail spent a ridiculous amount of time pondering that question. "A little over two months," he said finally.

"I see." Ethan had no idea what the date was, but he thought it had to be either late August or early September, which meant Wormtail had begun his training sometime in June. It couldn't be a coincidence -- he had to have been studying with Giles.

And Giles, as Ethan remembered all too well, had all sorts of quaint morals and scruples. He'd never knowingly teach someone who was working for Voldemort. If he was teaching Wormtail, then he believed him to be a friend, or at least an ally. A fellow white knight, working for Dumbledore's side. _Well, I'll be damned. The fat little bugger is a spy._

That explained the mask, too. Voldemort didn't trust his own people. He wasn't concealing Wormtail's identity from Ethan -- he was concealing it from Malfoy, and Snape, and anyone else who might be lurking in the shadows in Malfoy Manor.

Well, it wasn't any of Ethan's business. Let Voldemort and Dumbledore play their little spy games. He just wanted to get out alive.

"All right," he said. "I assume, then, that you know the meditation techniques and the basic alchemical transformations?"

Wormtail nodded.

"Good." Ethan shuffled through his notes and held out the first page of diagrams so that the other man could see it. "Let's get started, then."

* * *

By the end of the first week, it was perfectly clear to Ethan that Wormtail was going to be useless. He learned the technical aspects of the spell quickly enough, mixed the ingredients with a light and steady hand, and even showed some skill at the alchemy exercises Ethan made him practice. For a brief time, Ethan worried that their attempt at the Sanguacidulus Transfusion might not fail without some dangerously extensive sabotage on his own part. But when the time came to actually practice the spell, Wormtail's competence fell apart. He had neither the power to channel the required magical energy nor the control to direct it properly.

Halfway through the week, Ethan had requested a small animal for them to practice on. The next day, Malfoy -- looking even more tight-arsed than usual from the indignity of playing errand boy -- delivered a plump brown rat in a wire cage. Wormtail, for some reason, was deeply perturbed by this.

"Can't we get something else?" he whined. "I rather like rats."

"I'm not asking you to vivisect the thing. You won't even be looking at it when we cast the spell -- it'll be shut up in the bathroom."

Wormtail's shoulders drooped, and Ethan was sure the sad little bastard was pouting behind his mask. "But I'll still know it's there," he complained. "I'll know we're hurting it."

_How did someone that squeamish end up working for Voldemort in the first place?_ Ethan rolled his eyes.

"Fine," he said. "_You_ go and tell Voldemort that he needs to send us another test subject because the one we've got is just too cuddly. I'm sure he'll be very understanding."

Wormtail made no further complaints, but when they cast their circle and began the Transfusion, his focus was shaky right from the start. Ethan could feel the magic in the space between them, contained at first, then bursting like a bubble to dissipate uselessly into the air as Wormtail's concentration slipped.

"Pay attention, damn it," Ethan snapped. "Try again."

They tried for three days, always with the same result. 

"Tell your boss I want a new assistant," Ethan grumbled to Snape. "The one he sent me is defective."

Snape frowned. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"You know what's a bad idea?" Ethan snarled. "Me getting killed because I'm forced to work with a moron. Three days straight I've been putting that idiot through his paces, and what have I got to show for it? This." He gestured toward the far corner of the room, where the brown rat was placidly nibbling on a celery stalk. 

Snape raised one eyebrow, looking mildly inquisitive. "Who is this mystery assistant of yours, anyway? Lucius is positively beside himself with fury at not knowing."

"Is he?" Ethan shrugged indifferently. "Personally, I'm perfectly fine with not knowing. He comes in his cloak and mask, and he goes in his cloak and mask, and he does nothing useful in between. Maybe he's deformed under there. Maybe he's a house elf. Who cares?"

"Just curious." Snape didn't look at Ethan as he stood next to the desk, packing his supplies back into their little enchanted box. "Is he tall, short, lame, hunchbacked? Voldemort always makes us keep out of the way when he brings him in."

_Ah, so that's how it is..._ Ethan had to turn his face away to conceal his smirk. Wormtail was spying on Dumbledore for Voldemort, and Snape was spying on Voldemort for… somebody, but most likely Dumbledore. And he had to be pretty desperate for information, to ask his questions so unsubtly. Well, tough. Snape and Dumbledore had brought Ethan into this mess in the first place, and they were taking their sweet time about getting him out. Let them play their little spy games till they all dropped dead of old age. Ethan didn't owe them a thing.

"Tall," he said. "Athletic-looking fellow. Seems to think rather highly of himself, though I'm damned if I know why. So will you tell Voldemort I want somebody else, or not?"

"I'll tell him," Snape said. "But you might not like what he does about it."

Ethan was quite sure he wouldn't like it, but he thought it was worth the risk. He didn't think Voldemort would actually kill him outright before his fortnight was up. With a new assistant, he would have an excuse to start all over again, possibly winning himself more time. And at worst, he'd still have his remaining week.

It all sounded logical enough in his head, but logic was little comfort when Voldemort stormed into the room the next day, Wormtail slinking behind him like a whipped puppy.

"Severus tells me you've failed again," he hissed once Ethan had completed the obligatory grovel. "I've warned you what the consequences would be."

"I haven't failed, My Lord." Ethan slowly backed away, putting the desk between himself and Voldemort. He knew it wouldn't really help, but somehow it still made him feel better. "I can do my part -- right now, if you wish. But I _must_ have someone competent to work with in order to complete the spell, and instead you give me _that_." He pointed to Wormtail, who obligingly cringed. "Really, My Lord, if I didn't know better, I'd say you _wished_ me to fail."

"Does he speak the truth, Wormtail?" Voldemort loomed over the smaller wizard, who dropped clumsily to his knees, whimpering and wringing his hands. "Are you really unequal to a task that a Muggle performs with ease?"

"Forgive me, My Lord. It is a complicated spell, I have done my best, but--"

"And your best is still not as good as a Muggle's?" Voldemort raised his wand. "You're a disgrace to your pure blood, Wormtail. Crucio."

Wormtail shrieked in a high, ear-piercing voice as he writhed at Voldemort's feet. Ethan felt a small twinge of sympathy, which he quickly suppressed. _Better him than me._ The little toad had brought it on himself, after all, and then didn't even have the wherewithal to come up with a decent excuse. 

Voldemort lowered his wand and Wormtail curled into a ball, sobbing into the folds of his cloak. "My Lord… Master…" He reached out with one violently trembling hand to grasp at Voldemort's cloak. "Please. Haven't I done well for you? Haven't I been a good spy, brought you useful knowledge? Dumbledore and his friends don't suspect a thing, why they all think the McKinnons--"

"Silence!" Voldemort kicked Wormtail's hand away. "I'm interested in results, not excuses. Crucio."

Ethan backed away from the desk until he bumped the wall, then shuffled sideways into the corner. Voldemort was clearly in a mood, and he didn't want to attract notice. Looking down at the cage at his feet, he saw that the rat had abandoned its celery stalk and retreated to the back, where it burrowed under a pile of cedar shavings until only its twitching nose showed. "I know how you feel, mate," Ethan told it softly. If he could've dug himself into a hole to hide in, he would've done it too.

"Please, Master…" Wormtail was pleading again, his voice hoarse and broken from screaming. "I cannot do this spell, but there are others who can. Maybe I could bring them to you..."

"Dumbledore's pet Muggle, you mean?" Voldemort sneered. "You think he would do better than you?"

"Him, yes." Wormtail sniffed loudly and lifted his head off the floor. His hood had fallen back to reveal thin, mousy hair and very pink ears, but his mask was still in place. "Or… or maybe Lily Potter. She is very strong, My Lord. Giles said she has more power than he does."

"Lily Potter?" Voldemort's eyes narrowed to thin scarlet slits. "She's the red-headed witch, yes? What was that prophecy you told me about? The one made by that Trelawney woman? She will take the world into darkness?"

"Yes, My Lord." Wormtail struggled up to a sitting position. His voice sounded cautiously hopeful now, though he was still trembling. "'She will lose her way when she loses her love. Only the boy can bring her back. That was what Trelawney said."

"The boy..." Voldemort tapped the tip of his wand against his chin. "And who would that be?"

"I-- I don't know, my Lord. Her son, perhaps? He's only a baby, but--"

"But a boy baby, yes? I'll have to get rid of him. And the husband, of course, if she's to lose her love… Very well, Wormtail. If you can deliver Lily Potter to me, if she succeeds where you've failed, then I may forgive you."

"I will, Master." Wormtail clutched at Voldemort's robes again. "You are kind, Master. You are generous. You are--"

"Sick of the sight of you. Stop sniveling and get out."

"Yes, My Lord." Wormtail scrambled to his feet and staggered out, still sniffling and whimpering. Voldemort turned his head, and Ethan found himself frozen in his corner, trapped by that cold red gaze.

"Don't think you can escape your punishment, Muggle. You knew what you were supposed to do, and you failed to do it. Be grateful I'm letting you live. Crucio."

* * *

Later than night, Ethan flipped over the mattress on his bed and dug out the items he'd concealed inside. He wasn't sure if he had enough to do what he needed to do. The candle stubs might burn down too quickly, the herbs might've lost their potency after weeks of improper storage, the crystals might not be pure enough. But he had to try. His time was running out.

It took him three tries to cast a circle and draw the proper runes inside it. His hands were shaking so badly, he kept dropping the chalk and smudging the lines. But he did get it right in the end, and by the time all the other components were in place, he was calm enough to recite the incantation without a hitch. Ethan lay on his back inside the circle, closed his eyes and let the magic flow into him, seeping in through his pores, flowing through his veins… His body felt cold and leaden, an inert container for his real self. He pushed at the walls, wanting to be out, wanting freedom. There was a moment of pressure, of stifling, breathless darkness, and then, between one moment and the next, he was free. He floated up to the ceiling and looked down. His body lay still and slack-faced inside the circle. Ethan raised one ghostly hand and waved at it.

"Hold down the fort for me, will you?" he told himself, and drifted out through the wall.

He had no idea where in England he was, but it didn't matter. All he had to do was imagine himself in London, and there he was, hovering over Piccadilly Circus. Getting to Tottenham Court Road took a little more concentration, but he knew exactly where he was going, and it took only a few seconds to pinpoint the right building. Ethan drifted through the wall into a dark room and looked down at the softly snoring man in the bed.

_Wonder how long it will take him to notice?_

Not long. Ethan barely had time to count to ten before the sleeping man awoke with a start and sat up.

"Hello? Is anyone the-- oh, my God..."

Ethan grinned a spectral grin as he drifted closer. "Hello, Ripper. Long time, no see."


	13. Chapter 13

The End of the Beginning by Mariner 

**Chapter 13  
August 29, 1981  
**

Albus Dumbledore had just sat down to enjoy his breakfast when a familiar rumble outside signaled the approach of Sirius Black's motorcycle. This was mildly worrying: he had not been expecting a visit from Sirius, and the younger generation -- which in Albus' case meant just about everybody -- did not make a habit of dropping in on him for unannounced social visits, especially not two days before the start of term. Albus conjured a second place setting for his table and walked over to the window just in time to see the bike land on the lawn in front of Gryffindor tower with a thump and a spray of shredded turf.

Sirius had not come alone. His passenger's face was concealed by a helmet, but there was no mistaking the jeans and the tweed jacket. As Albus watched, both men dismounted and removed their helmets. They spoke to each other for a few moments, then turned and walked towards the entrance. This was rather more worrying. Sirius Black was hardly a model of conventional behavior, but even he would not bring a Muggle to Hogwarts on a whim, however trustworthy the Muggle in question might be.

Albus returned to his chair and spooned a generous helping of marmalade onto a piece of toast. He had a notion of what this sudden visit was about, and wanted to be prepared. Experience had taught him that most people were disarmed by the presence of food. It was difficult to be properly rude to someone while they were eating, more difficult still if they offered to share. So he took a large bite, chewed it thoroughly and swallowed before calling out, "Come in!" in response to the knock on his door. He was not surprised to see Giles enter alone. Sirius, then, had remained downstairs.

"Ah, Giles! It's good to see you. Would you like a cup of hot chocolate? I've just made it fresh."

"No, thank you." Giles stood just inside the doorway with his feet wide apart, as if bracing himself against some potential assault. His expression was grim and extremely focused. Most people entering the Headmaster's office for the first time took at least a few seconds to gawk, but Giles seemed oblivious to his surroundings. Even Fawkes, perched near the window in his most resplendent plumage, failed to elicit a reaction. Giles' glare turned into a suspicious frown as he noted the second place setting on the table. "Were you expecting me?"

"No, I'm afraid you took me completely by surprise." Albus took an unhurried sip of his own chocolate. "You are welcome, of course. Surprises are rare at my age. Won't you have a seat?"

"I'd rather stand." Giles took two rather aggressive steps into the room and leaned forward to loom over the breakfast table, a thundercloud in tasteful Harris tweed. "You didn't tell me about Ethan," he accused.

It was exactly what Albus had been expecting to hear, and exactly what he'd hoped to avoid. The chocolate lost its savor, and he put his cup down on its saucer.

"Please sit down, Giles. This is going to take quite a bit of explaining."

Giles hesitated for an uncomfortably long time, but eventually pulled up a chair and sat. The toast rack waddled toward him hopefully. He ignored it. He looked very young and very angry. Sometimes it seemed to Albus that everyone around him was very young and very angry, from Rupert Giles to Tom Riddle (who, no doubt, would be even more angry to learn that he was still being thought of as Tom Riddle anywhere in the world). It made him feel tired.

Giles planted his hands on the table, nearly overturning the sugar bowl, which scurried hastily out of harm's way. "Ethan spoke to me last night," he said in a harsh voice, "through an astral projection spell. He said he's being held captive at the house of somebody named Malfoy. He's been there over two months now. They've poisoned him, tortured him… you _knew._ You knew and you didn't tell me."

"Yes, I knew," Albus admitted. "And if I had felt that it was safe to tell you, then I would have done so. But there are a number of lives at stake, including Mr. Rayne's own, and at the time, I did not know you well enough to be certain that you wouldn't do something rash. To be honest…" He met and held Giles' angry gaze across the table. "I still don't know you well enough."

"Rash." Giles barked a short, entirely unhumorous laugh. "You mean as in, try to help him instead of just abandoning him to his fate?"

Albus shook his head. "I have not abandoned anyone. I have an agent in place at Malfoy Manor who has been working towards Mr. Rayne's rescue from the beginning, and who is now very close to achieving it. If I had thought there was anything you could do to help, I would've included you in our plans, but there is nothing you can do, and if you tried, you'd only succeed in endangering yourself, Mr. Rayne _and_ my agent." He stopped and ate a bite of toast, not so much because he wanted one as because he thought the conversation could use a quiet moment. This was not the way he'd intended to spend his breakfast. Worry for Severus was a constant, nagging presence in his mind, no matter what else he might be thinking or doing. Saying it aloud made the feeling even more acute. And Rupert Giles had never met Severus, had no reason to care about him, was quite legitimately focused on his own friend's safety. Still, Albus wanted to make him understand.

He sighed and took another sip of his hot chocolate. "You must see," he told Giles, "how much the outcome of this war depends on us keeping our secrets and finding out the secrets of our enemy. Voldemort has his spies among my people. I have mine among his. With every piece of information we receive, we must balance the need to act on it against the need to protect the person who delivered it. Someone told Voldemort about you and Mr. Rayne. Someone close to me; someone I trust." Albus paused for another piece of toast. "In fact," he continued, "the pool of possible suspects is rather small, which is why Voldemort took your friend instead of yourself. He'd hoped to do it without me ever finding out. And he would almost certainly have succeeded, if someone close to _him_ hadn't alerted me."

Anger, apparently, did not make Rupert Giles stupid. It took him no time at all to follow Albus' logic to its inevitable conclusion. 

"And now you can't let on that _you_ know," he said softly, "because Voldemort would know who told you."

"It would certainly narrow the field for him. And he is quite capable of… what's your Muggle phrase… killing them all and letting God sort them out." 

"So all this secrecy was about protecting your spy?" Giles stood up abruptly and ran one hand through his helmet-tousled hair. His movements had become jerky and awkward. He looked as if he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "This is insane. You make it all sound like a chess game, except you can't see your opponent's pieces."

"It is not a game!" Albus said sharply. "We're fighting a very real war. Very real people dying all too real deaths -- because of a careless word, a knowing look, a revealing gesture…you were there at the McKinnons' funeral, weren't you? You know what happened."

"Yes." Giles nodded grimly. "James told me."

"The McKinnons died, and Sirius, Alastor and Arabella were badly injured, because Anita said too much to her husband. Tobias was trustworthy, yet she was wrong to trust him. What happened was not his fault, yet still it happened. Had I told you about Mr. Rayne's abduction, had you unwittingly or unwillingly revealed your knowledge… no, Mr. Giles, I cannot take such risks."

"But you can leave me to blunder on in happy ignorance while Ethan suffers." Giles loomed over the table again. "I understand why you didn't tell me," he said, "but I'm still angry."

Well, at least he was honest about it. Albus could only offer honesty in return. "I understand your anger, but I did what I felt necessary. If I the same situation were to arise again, I would still make the same choice."

"I see." Giles lowered his head a little, took off his glasses, and spent several long seconds meticulously polishing the lenses with his handkerchief. When he put them on again and looked up, his face was smooth and placid. "Well. Thank you for your candor… however delayed it might be. I suppose I'd better go now, before Sirius gets tired of hanging about in the corridor."

"We can invite him in," Albus suggested, "if you would like to stay for breakfast."

"I don't think so," Giles said quietly. He began to turn away, then hesitated. "I want to be there," he said, "when you rescue Ethan."

"I believe that can be arranged."

Giles walked to the door and paused there, looking back over his shoulder. "Doesn't it ever make you sick?" he asked.

Albus stood up and walked slowly to the window, stopping next to Fawkes' perch. The bird gave a soft, plaintive trill and rested his golden head on Albus' shoulder. Albus closed his eyes for a moment as he stroked the silky feathers.

"Of course it does," he said quietly. "All the time."

* * *

Three days later, shortly after midnight, Albus accompanied Giles to Diagon Alley. He knew that Giles had been there before, with Sirius and Remus acting as his guides, and had been delighted by the experience. Albus was glad of it. It would've been a great shame if Giles' first impression of Wizard London was shaped by their current furtive entrance, the rapid walk down a deserted, unlit pavement, the silent climb up the stairs to the room where Albus normally met with Severus Snape. They did not encounter another living soul during their journey. Albus could remember a time when, even at this late hour, Diagon Alley would be full of people. He remembered music in the cafes and laughing young couples strolling arm in arm under floating globes of light. He had to restrain a sudden, irrational urge to apologize for the state of his world. _We're not always like this,_ he wanted to say. _You've caught us at a bad time._ Instead, he silently conjured an extra chair and pushed it toward Giles. Giles draped his borrowed cloak over the back, and they both sat down to wait.

Ten minutes later there was a faint _pop_ as Severus appeared in the room, clutching the raven-feather quill that Albus had earlier made into a Portkey for him. He staggered slightly on the landing, caught himself with one hand against the wall, then stood up straight and nodded to Albus before casting a wary, narrow-eyed look at Giles.

"Severus. I'm glad to see you safe." Albus stood, took Severus' arm and guided him to the bed. Severus sat down heavily and slumped sideways against the footboard. 

"Headmaster." His voice was hoarse and slurred. "And Mr.--"

"Giles," Albus said quickly. "He's a friend of Mr. Rayne. Who is..."

"Here." Severus took a lumpy gray rock from his pocket, placed it on the floor at his feet and held his wand over it. His hand shook slightly. "Finite Incantatem."

The rock vanished. In its place lay the still body of a man in Muggle clothes. Giles gave a startled exclamation and clambered out of his chair.

"Ethan!" He knelt at his friend's side, searched frantically for a pulse at his throat, and looked up with grief and accusation in his eyes. "He's dead."

"No, he's not," Severus said wearily. "The potion will wear off in a few moments. He should drink plenty of fluids after he wakes up, but take no solid food for twelve hours."

As if on cue, Ethan Rayne twitched, coughed, and began to breathe in loud, wheezing gasps. Giles propped him up against the bed and loosened his collar while Albus poured a glass of water from the jug on the washstand. Ethan drank greedily, tipping the glass back so quickly that water streamed from the corners of his mouth and dripped onto his shirt. He gulped down three glasses that way before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and mustering up a shaky grin.

"Ripper! Fancy seeing you here." He looked around the room, taking in Albus and Severus' presence with a smirk. "And in such disreputable company, too."

"Ethan…" Giles sat back on his heels, took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "God… Are you all right?"

"Bursting with health. Or so I'm told." Ethan leaned his head back against the edge of the bed to glare up at Severus, who stared back impassively. "Your antidote had better work, Snape. Or I'll come back to haunt you."

"It'll work." Severus' hair was falling into his eyes. He raised one hand as if to brush it back, then let the hand fall into his lap again. He was shivering. And he hadn't even insisted on the hour-long Polyjuice vigil that had begun every single one of their past meetings. It was that bad, then. Albus said nothing; he had learned the hard way that Severus tended to interpret expressions of concern as accusations of weakness. So he contented himself with taking a Honeydukes bar from his pocket, tearing off the gold foil, and holding the chocolate out in silence. Severus stared at the offering with a slightly dazed expression, as if he wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to with it. Finally he broke off a piece of chocolate with an unsteady hand, popped it into his mouth and chewed. It seemed to revive him a little -- he sat up straighter and, after another couple of bites, reached into his own pocket to take out a small flask. He pulled out the cork, and Albus caught the cloying scent of Numbing Draught.

Ethan Rayne tipped his head back to watch Severus drink. "If that's booze," he said, "I'll have some, please."

"It's not." Severus re-corked the flask and stowed it back in his pocket. His voice was stronger already, his movements steadier; obviously, the Draught was having the desired effect. "And you won't. No alcohol for the next twenty four hours, no potions of any kind for at least three days. Go away and get some sleep, Rayne. We'll both be happier."

Giles looked indignant, but Rayne merely smirked and rolled his eyes.

"You're all heart, Snape," he drawled. "Get me out of here, will you, Ripper? I've had enough of these _nice_ people you've been hanging around with."

"Yes, of course." Giles grasped Rayne's hands and pulled him to his feet, supporting him when his legs buckled. "We'll go straight away… won't we?" He gave Albus a dubious look. "I've never left Diagon Alley on my own. Will the doorway let us through?"

"Yes, but you really shouldn't..." Albus hesitated. He wanted to talk with Severus as soon as possible, so that the boy could go home to recover, but he couldn't very well let Giles and Rayne walk through Diagon Alley unprotected in the middle of the night. He was just about to ask them to wait downstairs, when Severus resolved the dilemma for him.

"I'll wait here till you come back, Headmaster."

"Are you certain?" It was the most practical course of action, but Severus was obviously in a bad way, and Albus hated the thought of abandoning him in this shabby room while he went out to escort other men to safety. His concern must've shown on his face somehow, because Severus' expression hardened abruptly, and his voice turned flinty and cold.

"I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself for a few minutes, Headmaster. By all means, walk your Muggles home."

"Yes, by all means, do." Rayne slumped heavily against Giles, who eyed him with increased concern.

"Ethan, are you injured?"

"No, he's not," Severus snapped. "He's weak and disoriented and has a headache, but these are normal symptoms after being dosed with the Draught of Living Death. Put him somewhere dark and let him sleep it off."

"Why, thank you, Snape. I don't know what I'd do without you around to tell me how I feel." Rayne's smirk turned into a scowl. "And in case you haven't noticed, I have been kidnapped, drugged, tortured and turned into a rock. I may not be injured, but I'd like to state for the record that I've been severely inconvenienced."

"All the more reason, then, to get you home as soon as possible." Albus opened the door. "After you, gentlemen."

The walk to the Leaky Cauldron was not a pleasant one, accompanied as it was by Ethan Rayne's continuous commentary on the indignities he'd suffered at Malfoy Manor. The descriptions were certainly gruesome, and Albus had heard enough from Severus to know that most of them were true, but there was an exaggerated, theatrical quality in Rayne's manner that made it difficult to find much sympathy for him. Albus sternly reminded himself that different people had different ways of coping, and exerted himself to be kind and not to dwell on the fact that he had spent the past two months fending off Rayne's increasingly horrific assassination attempts. It was a great relief to finally tap the wall and step into the Leaky Cauldron's dusty courtyard.

"One last suggestion, Mr. Rayne," he said, cutting off yet another litany of complaints. "Thanks to Severus' efforts, Voldemort and Malfoy both believe that you are dead. You're safe only as long as they continue to believe it. If I were you, I would keep my head down from now on. In another country, if possible."

"Wonderful." Rayne heaved a big, theatrical sigh. "Abducted, tortured, exiled from my home..."

"Ethan." Even Giles seemed to be losing patience with the melodrama. "Your home is a cockroach-ridden flat in Pimlico."

Rayne schooled his face into a virtuous expression and clasped his hands under his chin. "Be it ever so humble..."

"There should be a law against you ever using the word humble," Giles grumbled, and gave Dumbledore a small, wry smile. "I'll take it from here, sir."

"Thank you, Mr. Giles." Albus tapped the Cauldron's back door with his wand to open it. He waited until the two men reached the front door and disappeared into the Muggle street on the other side, and relocked the pub before Apparating from the courtyard to the opposite end of the Alley.

Back in the room, Severus was fast asleep. He had curled up on the bed with his boots and robes and cloak still on, pulled the bedspread over himself like a cocoon, and hugged a pillow to his chest as he slept. In the dim light of the bedside lamp, the dingy linen of the pillowcase appeared to be the same color as his face and hands. Albus was careful to make no noise as he pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down. He considered transfiguring the bedspread into a down comforter, but decided that Severus would be annoyed by it when he woke, so he contented himself with charming the bed linens clean. A quick survey of his pockets produced a pencil, several packets of sweets and a book of acrostic puzzles. All the necessities of life, conveniently at hand. Albus popped a sherbet lemon into his mouth, opened the book to a random page, and settled down to wait.

He was half-way through his fourth puzzle when Severus awakened with a start, flinging one arm out and knocking the pillow to the floor.

"Wha-- Headmaster?" He sat up slowly and carefully, as if the movement hurt, and pushed his hair back from his face. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Not long," Albus told him cheerfully. "I've been so engrossed in these puzzles, I've hardly noticed. I say, do you know a twelve-letter word for "disarming speech"?"

"Expelliarmus." Severus stifled a yawn and rubbed.his eyes. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to leave you waiting like that. You should've just woken me up."

"Not at all. We all need a nice nap once in a while. My brother Aberforth, for example, insists on taking one every afternoon, from two to five. Which probably explains why he never managed to retain an office job." Albus scratched his beard thoughtfully. "I've always told him he should have gone into the Ministry. You need not be awake for government work. In fact, it's often better if you're not."

He chatted at random for the next couple of minutes, while Severus splashed water on his face, straightened his robes, brushed his fingers through his hair and generally did his best to look as if he hadn't slept at all. Once the boy looked calm and collected once again, Albus quickly wrapped up his litany of Aberforth's misadventures and composed himself to listen.

"It all worked out as we'd planned." Severus sat up ramrod-straight as he spoke, hands clasped tightly in his lap, looking as if he feared he might fall asleep again if he let himself relax. "Voldemort thinks Rayne died of heart failure brought on by prolonged effects of the poison. It's a well-documented side effect. Voldemort was furious, but he wasn't suspicious." He shuddered and closed his eyes for a moment. "He ordered Lucius to get rid of the body, and Lucius, of course, passed the task on to me. It was all fairly... straightforward."

"No, it wasn't," Albus said sternly. "Don't belittle yourself, Severus. It was a highly dangerous, risky plan that might have gone wrong in a hundred different places. It succeeded because you made it succeed, not because it was easy. You've done extremely well."

"Thank you, sir." Severus nodded slightly, but did not smile or relax. If anything, he seemed even more tense than before, which was far from his usual reaction to praise. The boy was frightened, Albus realized. Or, no, not precisely frightened but… braced. That was it. Severus had the definite air of being grimly braced for something painful and unpleasant. Albus wanted to reassure him, but he had the feeling that he might be the source of the problem.

"Severus," he said quietly, "is there anything else you need to tell me?"

"Yes." Severus hunched his shoulders and held his clasped hands against his stomach. "I think... I think I know who Voldemort's spy is."

"Indeed." Albus kept his face and voice impassive, despite the combined anticipation and dread churning in the pit of his stomach. This was vital information whic Severus had been trying to uncover for almost a year. Yet now Albus found himself not wanting to hear it, not wanting to know which trusted friend was about to be condemned. "And who is it?"

Severus took a deep breath and lifted his head to meet Albus' gaze. When he finally spoke, his voice was firm and his eyes shone with perfect conviction.

"It's Sirius Black."

"Sirius." Dumbledore unwrapped another sherbet lemon, though the first one hadn't yet finished dissolving in his mouth. The sweet-and-sour, slightly fizzy taste on his tongue failed to provide its usual comfort. "I see. That is…" Appalling? Unthinkable? "Unexpected. I assume you have evidence of this?"

Severus' eyes flickered uncertainly. "I haven't actually seen him," he admitted. "No one's seen him except for Rayne and Voldemort himself. Even Lucius has been made to keep out of the way in his own house. But I've spoken to Rayne and... the description he gave sounds like Black"

He hesitated a moment on that last sentence, a pause so brief, it was barely more than a breath. But something about it prompted Albus to ask, "And how detailed was Mr. Rayne's description, exactly?"

"Not… not very." Severus bit his bottom lip and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He looked less like a spy reporting on a mission and more like a schoolboy desperately attempting to justify a faulty essay. Of course, he _had_ been a schoolboy, less than five years ago, though Albus recalled that his essays had never been faulty. "Voldemort doesn't take any chances -- he's made Black wear a mask every time he comes to the Manor. But the height and build match."

"Sirius Black's physique is hardly one of a kind," Albus pointed out, and allowed himself a fleeting smile. "Despite his own frequent claims to the contrary."

Severus glowered, clearly unamused. "I'm aware of that, Headmaster. But you must admit that it fits." He hauled himself to his feet and began to pace, staggering with unsteady steps from the bed to the door, and back again. "We know the spy is someone close to James Potter. Someone who is either an Auror, or works closely with them. Someone who knew about the Channel Islands raid. Someone--" He lurched to a stop and spun around on his heels, fixing Albus with an intense, glittering gaze. "Someone who knows both proper magic, and... and that other kind. The pool of suspects is really quite small. And out of all of them, Black is the only one that fits"

"But he doesn't fit," Albus pointed out. "Sirius has never learned any of the Muggle methods of magic. According to Mr. Giles, he's never so much as floated a feather an inch above the ground."

"He's faking!" Severus sputtered indignantly. "Anyone can pretend to be incompetent. If Black is the spy, of course he's not going to advertise what he can do! But he's been there for nearly every lesson, you've told me so yourself."

"So I have, yes." Albus stroked one hand from his chin down to the tip of his beard, wincing slightly as a few stray hairs snagged on the bulky seal ring on his finger. The Hogwarts crest winked at him in the lamplight -- lion, badger, eagle and snake, cunningly wrought in red and yellow gold, silently waiting on his judgment. Objective. He must be objective. What, all personal considerations aside, did he know about Sirius Black? A brilliant, difficult student, far too easily bored, unfettered by such prosaic concerns as school rules or common sense. An effective, if somewhat reckless, agent. Popular, independently wealthy, a talented wizard with every path open to him. It was almost impossible to imagine his succumbing to Voldemort's lure of a pureblood revolution. 

Yet that was the point, wasn't it? Voldemort's spy had to be someone above suspicion, else he would've been suspected already. Of course if he followed that line of reasoning to its logical conclusion, then Sirius Black must be innocent by virtue of having now been suspected. Albus shook his head ruefully.

"Severus," he said quietly, "I need more proof."

Severus stood there and glared at him, eyes growing colder with every passing moment.

"You don't believe me," he said in a flat voice.

Albus suppressed a sigh. "I believe you're reporting the facts accurately as you know them. But you yourself must admit that the facts are rather sketchy. I cannot accuse one of my most trusted people--"

"On the word of your least trusted." Severus gave a short, angry laugh. "Of course. I understand."

"You know that isn't true." Albus made no attempt to gentle his voice this time. "I trust you to do the right thing, Severus. If Sirius is the spy, I trust you to find solid evidence of his guilt. And if he's innocent, then I trust you _not_ to find any solid evidence of his guilt. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," Severus hissed through clenched teeth. Albus could almost see the disappointment and fury radiating from him in a thick black wave. He had looked exactly the same as a furious, battered sixth-year, looming over Albus' desk in torn and bloody robes, growling, "You're not even going to punish him, are you?" Nothing less than Sirius Black's immediate incarceration in Azkaban would have appeased Severus then. Nothing less would appease him now. "And what are you going to do about Black, while I'm out gathering my solid evidence?"

"I will make sure that Sirius is watched." The prospect filled Albus' mouth with a bitter taste no amount of sherbet lemons could overcome, but he couldn't in good conscience do anything less. "I will find harmless work for him to do. And I will wait."

"Don't wait too long," Severus muttered sullenly. "Voldemort has decided to go after the Potters. If Black is the traitor, this will be his big opportunity to prove his worth to his master."

Just when he thought he was finished with bad news for the night… "Voldemort's after James and Lily? Why? Or rather, why now?"

Severus shrugged, affecting a not entirely convincing air of indifference. "Something to do with a prophecy, apparently. He's decided that if he kills Potter and the brat, Lily Potter will somehow go over to his side and win the war for him. And no, I don't know how it's supposed to happen. But you do see why Black needs to be kept away from the Potters, don't you, sir?"

"Yes, I do." Albus sighed. He was not looking forward to telling James Potter that his family was a target, or that his best friend was under suspicion. "Thank you, Severus. I will do what I can."

* * *

Two weeks after Ethan Rayne's rescue, Albus received a note from Giles, delivered by a small, ragged owl that he dimly recognized from Peter Pettigrew's time at Hogwarts. The note extended a lunch invitation and specified the address of a café in Muggle London. Albus accepted with pleasure; he hadn't been to Soho since the Sixties.

It was cleaner than he remembered, and a great deal noisier and more crowded, filled with American and Japanese tourists taking photographs of the club signs and shop displays. Albus arrived early and took a table by the window, where he could watch the passing crowd in all its delightful variety. The girl who brought his coffee sported vibrant blue hair, a leather corset, and a complicated Celtic knot tattooed on one bony shoulder. Albus, in his khaki trousers and Hawaiian print shirt, felt positively subdued by comparison. Even Giles, arriving exactly on time, had eschewed his usual tweed in favor of black jeans and a black cotton sweater.

"I wasn't sure if you'd come," he said, unslinging a fat canvas backpack from his shoulders and letting it drop with a heavy thump as he sat down. "Peter seemed quite shocked when I told him I was inviting you here, but I've grown rather tired of needing an escort every time I want to speak with you. I thought it would do you good to come out to a non-magical place for once." There was a challenging note in his voice. 

Albus looked out onto the pavement, where a young woman in a long purple dress was making a pair of marionettes dance a tango in front of a slowly gathering crowd. "I would hardly call this place non-magical."

The waitress reappeared, teetering in her high-heeled boots, to take their orders for soup and sandwiches. Giles called her back at the last moment to ask for a pint of bitter, and waited for her to return with his glass before he spoke again.

"I'm leaving England," he said. "Three days from now. I don't know when I'll be back."

Albus took small, slow sips of his coffee as he pondered this announcement. "Because of Mr. Rayne?" he asked after a while. Giles shook his head.

"No. He left last week, to visit some friends in Italy. I'm going to Romania."

Albus pondered some more. "You're still angry with me," he said after a while.

"No." Giles seemed to become deeply absorbed in the trickle of foam that was sliding down the side of his glass. "Or rather, I am, but that's not why I'm leaving. I have… obligations. There are people who had a claim on my loyalties before I ever heard of you or Voldemort. If they say I must go and translate some early medieval manuscripts in Bucharest, then I must go and translate some early medieval manuscripts in Bucharest." He kicked at the backpack that lay next to his chair, pushing it across the floor toward Albus. "I have some books here I'd like you to give to Lily. I would've given them to her myself, but it seems she and James have disappeared off the face of the earth. Peter says they've gone into hiding. Remus says you're the only one who knows where they are. Sirius says a number of things that don't bear repeating in polite company."

"They're all telling the truth," said Albus. Giles smiled ruefully over the top of his beer glass.

"Including Sirius?"

"Probably." Albus had read the reports filed by the two Unspeakables he had assigned to watch the house Sirius was sharing with Remus. He knew that Sirius had been furious when he discovered the Potters had gone into hiding without informing their friends. It was hardly a surprise. James had been furious too, refusing to even consider the possibility that either Sirius or anyone else close to him might be a traitor. He would have stayed in his house and thrown parties for all his friends every day, just to prove a point, had the danger been to himself alone.

The waitress arrived with their lunch. Albus' roast beef sandwich was so thick, he had to take it apart and eat with a knife and fork. Giles peppered his soup, but made no move to eat or even to stir it.

"Are they going to be all right?" he asked. "Lily and James and Harry? Just how safe are these safehouses of yours, exactly?"

Albus resisted the temptation to offer a reassuring lie. "I don't know. In the short term, probably safe enough. In the long run… it depends on how badly Voldemort wants to find them."

"I don't suppose there's a chance I could see them before I go? Just to say good-bye?"

"I don't think that would be wise, Mr. Giles. But I'll make sure they get the books."

"Thank you." Giles seemed to suddenly notice the bowl of soup in front of him, and picked up his spoon. Albus slathered more horseradish sauce on his meat, and for the next few minutes both men ate in silence. It was probably very good food, Albus thought wistfully. Regrettably, neither one of them was in a fit state of mind to enjoy it.

Giles finished first -- or, rather, he gave up the effort first, pushing his bowl away while it was still half full.

"Tell them I'm sorry, all right?" he said. "Tell them I wish I could've stuck it out here with them. Tell them… oh, never mind. I'll tell them myself when I come back, and all this mess is over and done with. Won't I?" He didn't sound as if he believed it.

"Of course you will," Albus told him. "They will want to return your books to you, after all." He made himself sound as if he believed it.


	14. Chapter 14

The End of the Beginning By Mariner 

**Chapter 14  
  
October 21, 1981**

Sirius landed the motorbike on an unkempt patch of grass in front of the safehouse, toed the kickstand down, and took a few moments to look around to make sure he hadn't somehow been followed. His helmet's faceplate was charmed to allow him to see in the dark, but there was nothing to see except for silent, undisturbed moorland in all directions. Not even an invisible attacker could hide here, not without displacing the knee-high carpet of grass and heather that stretched for miles around. Satisfied, Sirius climbed off the bike, hung his helmet on the handlebar and walked toward the front door.

Like all of Dumbledore's safehouses, this one looked like an unpicturesque ruin on the outside, but was presumably more habitable on the inside. When Sirius concentrated, he could feel the wards above him, around him, even in the ground beneath his feet. They didn't trigger when he approached, so Dumbledore must've acceded to James and Lily's request to let him through. That was a relief. Given recent events, Sirius hadn't been entirely sure he'd be allowed to land in one piece. He shook his head ruefully as he recalled James' last vsit two weeks before, and everything that followed it.

* * *

There had been some sort of row between James and Dumbledore. Sirius didn't know the details, but he knew it involved him, and possibly Remus and Peter, too. James and Lily had disappeared for weeks, their house dark and empty. Only Dumbledore knew where they'd gone and he wasn't talking. This left Sirius and Remus with nothing to do but sit around and worry. Which is exactly what they were doing -- sitting in the kitchen, picking at a half-eaten supper and worrying -- when they heard someone Apparate into the living room. They rushed in with their wands out, half-expecting a Death Eater attack, only to find James standing in the middle of the room, winded and disheveled, looking as if he hadn't slept in days.

"I'm through with this shit!" he shouted. "They find us anyway. Whatever we do, they find us, and I'm damned if I'm going to hide from my friends when my enemies are beating down the door!" 

Sirius started to ask what the hell he was talking about, but he never got a chance, because at that point, James -- good-natured, unflappable James, who never lost his temper for anything -- snatched up a chair and smashed it into the wall so hard that two of the legs came off, and a cloud of plaster dust billowed into the room. And then he sat down right there in the middle of the floor, took off his glasses, and rested his head against his knees. 

"If either one of you is trying to kill me," he muttered, "just go ahead and do it, all right? Because I can't deal with this anymore."

There was a long, horrified silence broken only by James' labored breathing, until Sirius recovered enough to haul his friend to his feet and steer him to the sofa.

"Don't be daft, Prongs, of course we're not trying to kill you. Just take a deep breath and tell us what's happening, all right?"

It took quite a lot of deep breaths, but eventually James got the story out. The Potters had gone through ten supposedly secure locations in the month since they'd gone into hiding. None had lasted more than five days before the Death Eaters attacked. Each time, the wards had held long enough for them to grab Harry and get away. But the attacks kept coming, growing more and more frequent, until James and Lily both began to buckle under the strain. The last three raids had come less than a day apart. James had killed three Death Eaters in their final getaway -- the first time he'd ever used his Auror's license to cast an Unforgivable -- and Lily had nearly splinched herself, Apparating with a wailing, struggling Harry in her arms. They couldn't live like this. Nobody could live like this.

"Constant vigilance. Ha!" James' laugh had a distinctly hysterical edge to it. "Alastor doesn't know what the hell he's talking about. I'd been constantly vigilant for a month now, and it's like dying of a wasting curse. Every day there's a little bit less of you left. It's wearing Lily down, too, and Harry never stops crying anymore, and… God…" He broke off with a dry, painful sob. "I swear, if I thought it would end there, I'd off myself and save Voldemort the trouble. It would probably be restful."

"Don't talk like that." Sirius felt ill. He'd never seen James like this. It broke all the sensible laws of the universe, Muggle and magical, to see James like this. Sirius looked over his shoulder at Remus, who hadn't moved or said a word since James had started talking. "We'll work it out. We always work it out. Right, Moony?"

But Remus' face was pale and his voice, when he finally spoke, had the unmistakable sound of barely controlled panic. "James, _please_ tell me you didn't leave Lily and Harry alone to come here."

James shook his head. "Dumbledore is with them. Putting extra wards on the new house. Not that it'll do any good. Even Dumbledore admits it won't do any good."

"Do they know where you've gone?"

Sirius bit back a snarl. What the hell was Remus thinking, lecturing like a disapproving nanny when James was coming apart at the seams? "It's all right--" he began, but Remus kept talking right over him.

"How long ago was the last attack?"

"A couple of hours." James sighed. "And no, they don't know where I've gone. We were standing around yelling -- well, Lily and I were yelling, and Dumbledore was standing around being calm and reasonable, you know how he gets -- and I suppose I just… left."

"You do realize, don't you, that Lily must be worried sick?" Remus sounded almost angry now. "We need to tell her you're here. Is the new house on the floo network?"

"Only internally." James took off his glasses again and rubbed his eyes. "Look, I'm going to go right back, all right? I just wanted to tell you guys something. Dumbledore says that since the safehouses aren't working, the only sure way we can keep ourselves hidden is the Fidelius Charm. He's offered to be our Secret-Keeper." He lifted his head a little, face set in the stubborn, square-jawed expression Sirius recognized from a thousand schoolboy squabbles. "But I want you to do it, Padfoot."

"Of course," Sirius said immediately.

It was hours later, long after a much calmer and more optimistic James had Apparated back to his new not-so-safehouse, that Sirius actually remembered what the Fidelius Charm was.

Remus had mostly quiet while James was around, but once they were alone, he made his disapproval crystal clear.

"Don't do it," he said earnestly, crouching next to the chair where Sirius sat with his seventh-year Defense textbook open in his lap. "Leave it to Dumbledore. It's the safest way."

"Like hell it is." Sirius turned the book sideways to show Remus the two columns of small, closely spaced text giving the details on Fidelius. "Look, if I'm following this right, the spell draws on the Secret-Keeper's magic to effect the concealment. It's a slow, constant drain, and as long as it's in effect, the Secret-Keeper can't use his powers to his full extent. We can't possibly afford to limit Dumbledore that way. I can't believe the old man even suggested it."

"But he did suggest it And I'll bet anything you want he knows exactly what it does. If Dumbledore thinks it's all right for him--"

"Oh, come off it, Remus!" Sirius slammed the book shut. "You know exactly why Dumbledore made that offer. He thinks the traitor's one of us."

"All the more reason for you not to do it," Remus insisted. "Because whether you like it or not, _somebody_ is a traitor. Think about, Sirius -- how have the Death Eaters been finding out where James and Lily are?"

"Not from us! We don't know where they are."

"But we could find out if we really wanted to, couldn't we? Sixth-year Defense class, remember? Tracking spells. The Dark kind."

"I remember." Sirius frowned. "You can find just about anyone if you do the right rituals. But you need something from the target -- blood or hair or nail clippings. And…" he trailed off, suddenly unwilling to go on as the rest of the lesson came back to him.

"And," Remus pressed on relentlessly, "it works better if the spell-caster is someone familiar with the target. Like a close relative or--"

"Or a best friend," Sirius finished harshly. "So which one of us do you think it is, Remus? Me or Peter?" And God, wouldn't it just be fucking hilarious if they'd been suspecting each other all those months?

Remus sat back on his heels and looked at him with cool, expressionless eyes. "How do you know it's not me?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sirius forced a laugh. "Are you trying to confess, Moony?"

"I'm trying to make a point. Somebody is a traitor. I figure it's not James or Lily, since they're the ones under attack, and it's not Dumbledore, because if it were, we'd all be long dead by now. Other than that, I'm not making any assumptions, and neither should you. It's not safe for you to be Secret-Keeper."

"I don't care if I'm safe or not." Sirius decided he'd had enough of this conversation. He started to rise from his chair, but Remus grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"I meant," he said quietly, "it's not safe for James and Lily." 

"I'd never give them away!" Sirius wrenched his arm from Remus' grip. "I'd die first."

Remus didn't say anything to that. He just sat there, looking patient, as if waiting for Sirius to work it out. And Sirius, staring back at him, found himself remembering the McKinnons' funeral, and the questions he'd hurled at Remus afterwards, here in the same room.

_Tobias had talked. Do you think anyone would?_

The Defense book thumped to the floor as Sirius lurched to his feet. He kicked it away, hard enough to crack the spine and send loose pages flying

"I'd die first," he repeated in a hoarse voice, and bolted from the room.

* * *

Neither he nor Remus had ever brought up the subject again. But alone, especially at night, Sirius hadn't been able to put it out of his mind. Hadn't been able to stop wondering if Remus' uncomfortable questions had somehow been intended as a warning.

_Somebody is a traitor. Don't make assumptions._

_Voldemort can control Dark Creatures at a distance._

_Remus is not a Dark Creature._

_Somebody is a traitor. Don't make assumptions._

Why was Remus so set on a course of action that would limit Dumbledore's powers? And all those questions Remus had asked James -- not unreasonable questions, really. All things a concerned friend might ask. But there was more than one way to use the information. If the new safehouse _had_ been on the floo network, if Lily _had_ been alone in there...

If Voldemort was doing it, then it wasn't Remus' fault, was it? But if the Ministry found out, they'd put him down, just like they'd put down those other werewolves in Yorkshire.

_Remus is not a Dark Creature._

_Somebody is a traitor. Don't make assumptions._

Doubt spun circles in Sirius' mind like a dog chasing its tail. Even now, standing at the doorstep of the Potters' latest hideout, he wasn't sure if he was doing the right thing. But it was stupid to back down now, not after he'd come this far. Besides, maybe James would talk him out of it… He knocked on the door.

James still looked rumpled and sleep-deprived, but he managed a faint smile as he opened the door. 

"Sirius. Come in. I'd say, make yourself at home, but it's not really an option at the moment."

There were two large trunks stacked on top of each other in the parlor, and a number of suitcases stacked against the wall. James and Lily were moving to a new location every day now, trying to keep a step ahead of the Death Eaters and their tracking spells while they waited for the stars to come into proper alignment for the Fidelius to be performed. So far, it seemed to be working.

Sirius followed James into the kitchen and accepted a butterbeer from a cooler under the sink.

"Where are Lily and Harry? Getting some sleep, I hope?"

"No such luck." James flipped his bottle cap toward the trash bin and missed by about three feet. "Lily's taken Harry and gone to visit her sister."

"You're joking!"

"Wish I was."

"I thought Lily hated her sister."

"No, her sister hates Lily, which is not at all the same thing." James took a long gulp of his drink and jumped up to sit on the counter next to the sink. "But the Dursleys are the only family she's got left, and once the Fidelius is in place we won't be seeing anybody for who knows how long, and she wanted to visit. I offered to come along, but she said no, maybe they'd be nicer if I wasn't there. So here I am. And there she is."

"I guess I don't blame her," Sirius said doubtfully. He'd had a number of unavoidable encounters with the Dursleys during James and Lily's wedding preparations, and "nice" was not the first word that came to mind when he thought of them. Petunia had walked down the aisle at his side with her shoulders hunched and her elbows tucked in against her side, as if she was afraid of catching something horrible if she accidentally touched him. She had refused to dance with him at the reception, and Vernon had made a point of roughly shouldering him aside as he bundled his precious away from "the freak." Still, as James said, they were Lily's only family. And she had taken Harry along. Everybody loved Harry. "Will they be safe? Going out by themselves like that?"

"As safe as anything else." James swallowed more butterbeer, looking as if he was tasting vinegar. "Including this place. Nowhere's really safe until the Fidelius is cast."

That, Sirius decided, was probably the best opening he was going to get. He drained the rest of his drink in one breath and dropped the bottle into the bin.

"Right. Fidelius. Actually, James, I kind of need to talk to you about that."

"What now?" James looked wary. "Sinistra hasn't changed the date on us again, has she?"

Urania Sinistra, Hogwarts' new Astronomy professor, had taken several days to work out the right date for the spell, and then had had to redo the calculations from scratch when she realized she'd forgotten to include the Hailey's comet trajectory in her equations.

"No, it's still three days from now, as far as I know. This is… this is about something else." Despite the butterbeer, Sirius' mouth felt dry as sand. He had no idea how to say what he needed without making it come out all wrong. "I don't think I should be your Secret-Keeper," he blurted out.

James, unlike Remus, was always easy to read. All his emotions showed on his face as he felt them: surprise, then a brief flash of disappointment, then weary resignation.

"I understand," he said. "It was a hell of a thing to ask. I shouldn't have--"

"No!" Fuck. It _had_ come out all wrong, just like he'd feared it would. "That's not it at all. Look, James, I'm… I'm honored that you asked me. I would've been insulted if you'd asked anyone else. And I _want_ to do it. But I'm too obvious. Especially if someone's passing information to Voldemort, which we know someone is. It wouldn't be safe. For you."

The weariness in James' face smoothed out a bit, replaced by a faintly puzzled expression as he thought over Sirius' words.

"You don't trust yourself," he said after a while.

Sirius winced. "Kind of. I'm not sure I trust anybody in this situation. I keep thinking of Tobias and Anita, see--

James flinched, the way he always did whenever the McKinnons were mentioned. "Sirius, we've been over this a hundred times. It wasn't--"

"Yes, yes, I know. It wasn't Tobias' fault. Everyone keeps saying that. And you know what? It doesn't help anything." Sirius sat down in the nearest chair and stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep from fidgeting. "Look, I'm not going to pretend I'm not afraid of being tortured, because, well, I am, but that's not what really scares me. You know what really scares me?"

"What?"

"The thought of people standing around at my funeral saying it's not my fault you and Lily are dead."

"I see… I think." James sat down too, though he didn't seem particularly fidgety. "All right, I guess I'll… ask somebody else, then. Not Dumbledore, though, I'm not going to limit him that way."

"I know, I've read the same book." Sirius felt an uncomfortable mixture of relief and disappointment. Relief, because James didn't spit in his face and call him a coward. Disappointment, because James didn't laugh and tell him all his fears were stuff and nonsense. "Listen, I've got the whole thing figured out. You choose another Secret-Keeper, but you don't tell anybody; let everyone keep thinking it's me. I'll run, just like we've planned, but I'll keep in touch with the real Secret-Keeper, every day, so you know I'm out there. Let the Death Eaters waste their resources chasing me around. If they never catch me -- great, everyone's safe. And if they do -- if ever a day goes by and you don't hear from me -- then you'll know the game's up, and you'll have time to act."

James yawned and scratched his head. "I see you've been thinking about this a lot."

"Yeah, I haven't done this much thinking since I took my N.E.W.T.s. But it's a good plan, isn't it?"

"I suppose." James yawned again. "I'll need to talk it over with Lily. But I guess it makes sense."

"Of course it makes sense. Lily will see it." Sirius grinned. "She's always had the brains in the family." 

"Yeah, but I've got the looks." James flipped his hair back with a dramatic sweep of his hand that made his fringe stand straight up. "All right, then. We have a plan. What we don't have, of course, is a Secret-Keeper."

"Peter," Sirius said quickly. A little too quickly, judging by the startled look James gave him. Sirius clenched his fists inside his pockets. He had to do this right. He wasn't going to say anything against Remus in front of James, not when all he had was vague suspicions and late-night jitters. But he had to make certain James chose Peter, just to be on the safe side. "If we're going to use the most obvious guy as the decoy, then we should use the least obvious as the real thing, right? And no one ever suspects Peter, 'cos he looks like such a duffer." 

"Sirius--"

"I'm not being mean, you know it's true. People underestimate him. We know what he's capable of, but hardly anyone else does. He won't even have to hide. He can stay in his house, carrying on with life as usual, and no one will think twice about it when they know I've run off. It's perfect."

"You have a point there." James looked pleased. "It'll make Peter happy, too. He always thinks he's not doing enough in the war. Have you talked to him yet?"

Sirius shook his head. "I wanted to check with you first."

"All right, then. You talk to Peter, and I'll talk to Lily when she gets back." James fetched two more butterbeers from the cooler and handed one to Sirius. "To old friends and new plans," he said. They clinked bottles and drank. 

"I'd offer you dinner," James said, "but I think all we've got is some day-old takeaway curry and a crate of baby food. I can highly recommend the mashed bananas."

"Thanks, but I think I'll pass." Sirius stood up. "I should get going anyway. Go find Peter. Tell him he's about to become the most wanted man in Britain." He scuffed his boot heel against the chipped tile floor, feeling suddenly self-conscious, and held out his hand. "I guess I won't see you again for a while, will I? Give my love to Lily and Harry and… and be well, all right?"

"Right. You too." James stood also, looking every bit as awkward as Sirius felt, and clasped Sirius' hand. They held on for a few seconds, and when Sirius started to pull away, James tightened his grip. "Sirius?"

"Yes."

"Promise me something."

"Anything you want."

"If something happens to Lily and me -- you'll take care of Harry, right?"

Sirius' throat closed up on him; it took several seconds to get his answer out. "Stop talking rubbish, James. Nothing's going to happen to you and Lily. That's the whole point of this Fidelius business, remember?"

"Promise." James' grip tightened until Sirius thought his fingers might crack. "I need to know he's got somebody, all right? Promise you'll do it."

"Of course I'll do it. I can't believe you're even asking. What did you think I'd say?"

"Sorry." James shrugged. "I just needed to hear it, that's all. You know how it is." And then he muttered, "Aw, hell, Padfoot," in a suspiciously choked voice and pulled him into a rib-cracking hug.

"Yeah, I know. Me too." Sirius clapped James on the back, making him wheeze, then pulled away. "All right, now I _really_ should go."

"Definitely. Quick, before we do anything else embarrassing."

He knew it was premature, but Sirius allowed himself to feel just a little bit hopeful as he climbed back onto his bike. He would go find Peter right away, tell him the plan, get everything settled. And then, maybe, for the first time in weeks, he could sleep easy for a night.


	15. Chapter 15

The End of the Beginning By Mariner 

**Chapter 15**  
  
**October 31, 1981**  
  


"He's asleep," Lily whispered, tiptoeing into the living room. There was no real reason to whisper, with Harry happily curled up in his cot upstairs, but over the past couple of months she'd fallen into the habit. 

"Good." James wrapped one arm around her waist and drew her into his lap, planting a kiss in the hollow of her throat. "Alone at last."

Lily nuzzled his shoulder and resisted the temptation to point out that they'd been alone for nearly a week, and were going to stay alone for the foreseeable future, maybe for the rest of their lives. They'd already had that row, complete with tears, smashed crockery, and James demanding to know if she thought he'd started this war on purpose just to annoy her. 

It was all over and done with now, both the fighting and the making up. Here they were, in this quiet, comfortable house in Godric's Hollow, and here they were going to stay. A place to be safe, finally. All the usual protective spells were in place: wards against all the common destructive charms, shields against Apparition, spells to guard against fire and wind and water. And over it all, sealing off the house and garden like a hermetic bubble, lay the Fidelius spell. Lily could feel it without even trying, the strongest magic she'd ever touched.

They had each other. They had books and games and a Wizarding Wireless set to keep them amused. They had a year's worth of food in the pantry, stored under the strongest preserving charm Lily could cast. No one talked about what would happen when the year was up, and Lily wouldn't let herself think that far ahead. If she focused only on the present, she could think of the house as a shelter rather than a prison.

"Lil?" James caught her hand in his and pressed it lightly against his cheek. He needed a shave, Lily thought fondly. And a haircut. Though, to be honest, the scruffy look kind of suited him. "Are you all right? Something bothering you?"

"No, I'm fine." Lily wriggled closer and felt his arm tighten around her waist. "A little tired, that's all."

"Want a backrub?"

"Maybe later." She rested her head on James' shoulder and closed her eyes. "I'm comfortable right here." The Fidelius did have its advantages, she thought. The war was over for them. No more running, no more attacks. No more late nights pacing in front of the fireplace, waiting for James to come home from a raid. They'd had nearly a week of peace, of restful evenings by the fireplace and late mornings in bed. A girl could get used to that. 

James slid one hand beneath her shirt and traced light circles in the small of her back, his fingertips warm and slightly callused against Lily's skin. She wriggled some more, and his breathing grew a little faster. Lily opened her eyes again and saw his face in profile, just inches from hers. His cheeks were flushed a little beneath the dark stubble, and his glasses were sliding down his nose.

"If you're so comfortable," he murmured, lips close to her ear, "then why can't you keep still?"

Lily plucked his glasses off and put them on the table next to the sofa. "Maybe I don't want to be comfortable."

A long, slow kiss. A warm hand sliding around from her back to her stomach and upward to cup her breast. Oh, yes. A girl could get used to this so very, very easily...

Something shifted in the air around them, a silent, barely perceptible shudder. Lily pulled away from James, alarmed without quite knowing why. A moment later, she knew. All the familiar wards were still there, layered protectively over the house. But the smooth bubble of the Fidelius was gone. 

"James--"

"I know." His wand was already in his hand, even as his other hand groped across the table for his glasses. Lily scrambled to her feet, pulling out her own wand. 

"What happened?" Stupid question. He couldn't know any more than she did. But she wanted so badly for someone to tell her that she was wrong, that this wasn't what she thought it was. Fragmented thoughts raced through her mind, each one too appalling to complete. _Had they found Peter alrea-- but then Sirius-- one of them must be-- or both--_

A clap of noise overhead, like a sonic boom. The whole house shook. One of the windows shattered. And nearly half the wards blinked out at once. Lily raised her wand by instinct and fired off a reinforcing spell, a fraction of a second behind James. The next attack made the wallpaper scorch and blister, as if acid were seeping through the walls, but the remaining wards held.

James staggered to the window and looked outside, whirled around, pressed his back against the wall. Lily had never seen his face so white before, never heard his voice so panicked. 

"Lily, take Harry and go! It's him!"

The ceiling cracked, raining chips of plaster on their heads. Lily took a step toward the window on unsteady legs. Through the jagged remains of the pane, she could see a single cloaked figure standing in the garden outside. The cloak's hood shadowed the attacker's face, but there was no room for doubt about who he was.

Lord Voldemort had come for them in person.

The house shook again. The walls groaned, dishes shattered in the kitchen. Lily couldn't hear what spell James fired through the window, but the figure in the garden fell back half a step before raising his wand again. Lily cast another reinforcing spell just in time; the wards still held. 

"Go!" James shouted. "Run! I'll hold him off--"

It was a lie. They both knew it was a lie. She almost challenged him about it, almost refused go. But Harry was crying upstairs, she could hear him, and she was all he had.

There was no time for goodbyes or final declarations. Lily brushed her hand against James' sleeve as she turned toward the stairs.

"Don't try to attack him directly," she said. "Just make sure the wards hold."

James nodded. He was still pale, but his eyes were cold and hard now, and his wand hand was perfectly steady. He turned away from her to face the door, which was now hanging askew on one hinge.

"Run," he said.

Lily ran.

She was two steps from the top when the staircase collapsed under her feet. The creak of shattering wood gave her just enough warning to leap, and she crashed face-first onto the landing with her legs dangling over the edge. She clutched at the carpet and hauled herself up. Only as she climbed to her feet on the blessedly solid floor did she realize that her wand was gone from her hand, lost in the pile of rubble ten feet below.

There was no time to berate herself. The house was coming apart around her, the wards were collapsing one by one; there was no telling how much longer James would hold out. Lily kept going. She felt strangely light-headed, and her shirt stuck uncomfortably to her skin. She tugged at it, and felt a warm, sticky wetness under her fingers. When she held up her hand, it was smeared with blood. There were several jagged scratches across her stomach where she must've cut herself on the broken floorboards as she climbed onto the landing. Lily wiped her hand on her skirt and kept moving. She felt no pain.

The nursery was a disaster area, most of the furniture overturned, the contents of the toy chest scattered all over the floor amidst shards of glass from the broken window. Harry was sitting up in his cot, plaster dust all over his hair and face and blue baby-duck pajamas, crying at the top of his lungs. Lily lunged toward him. The floor pitched under her feet and she fell onto her hands and knees. Something crumpled under her right hand. She looked down and saw that she'd fallen over one of Giles' books. She'd been reading it earlier, as she'd sat next to the cot waiting for Harry to fall asleep. Less than ten minutes earlier. A lifetime ago. Now one page was torn in half, and the page beneath it smeared in blood, a sticky red handprint right across a beautifully rendered circle of runes.

Lily recognized the symbols even as she was climbing back to her feet. It was the protection spell Giles had told her she couldn't cast. The invocation to Inanna, and the impossible choice that came with it. She had been poring over it for weeks, searching for a loophole, some way to expand the goddess' protection to cover two people instead of one. She could recite the spell in her sleep by now, but she still hadn't found a way to alter it.

_Inanna... Lady... supreme in heaven and earth..._ The words of the incantation rang in Lily's mind as she staggered across the room. She had never prayed before, not for real, but now it made her feel stronger somehow, less alone. An illusion, but one she sorely needed. _I open my heart for your judgement... Queen of all given powers... protect my son..._

She bent down to lift Harry from the cot, then stopped, struck by the cold realization that she had no idea how to get out of the house. There was no way downstairs anymore. She had no wand. Lily ran to the window, wrapped the curtain around her hand to clear the remaining bits of glass out of the way, and looked out. Ten feet to the ground, maybe a little more, with thick grass below. Alone, she could've jumped down easily. With Harry in her arms... there was no choice, she had to risk it.

_Protect him, Lady... enfold him in your hands..._

The floor pitched her off her feet again. She banged her head on the windowsill as she went down, hard enough to blur her vision for a few seconds, and when she could see again, she wasn't alone in the room.

A woman stood next to Harry's cot, naked except for a broad collar of turquoise and hammered gold around her neck. She was nearly as tall as the ceiling, mahogany-skinned, with generous hips and breasts and a round, bulging belly. She gazed down at Harry with serene black eyes and Harry stared back, spellbound, no longer crying. The woman brushed her fingers lightly over his hair and turned toward Lily.

"Are you ready for judgment, daughter?" Her voice was low and musical. She wasn't speaking English, yet Lily understood every word.

"Who are you?" she whispered, but it was an empty question. She already knew the answer. 

"You summoned me here." Inanna swept one out in a circle to indicate the room around her, or the whole house, or maybe the planet. "With your prayer and your blood, you called me to this realm to judge your heart. Are you ready, then?"

Downstairs, something exploded. The few remaining wards blinked out of existence, one by one. There was a moment of total, unnatural silence. And then someone laughed -- cold, high-pitched laughter that made Lily's skin crawl. There was nothing human in that sound.

Lily knew she should be moving, but her body felt cold and leaden. Even breathing was an effort. _James is dead._ She was sitting on a striped blue rug with alphabet blocks and stuffed animals scattered all around her, there was a goddess standing over her son's cot, and James was dead. There was no sane response to this. The pieces didn't fit.

Harry whimpered, and the sound snapped Lily out of her paralysis. She had to get him out. James had died to give her these extra minutes; she couldn't let them go to waste. Lily grabbed the sill with both hands, pulled herself to her feet, and lifted Harry into her arms. Even standing, she had to crane her neck to meet Inanna's eyes.

"This is my son," she said. "He's all I have left. If you're really here because I called you, then save him. Please."

Inanna held out her arms, and Lily placed Harry into them before she realized what she was doing. The goddess cradled him against her chest, examining him with a faintly curious expression. Harry stuck his fist in his mouth and drooled contentedly all over it. He did not seem bothered at being picked up by a giant, naked stranger. Inanna held him a long time, but Lily felt no sense of urgency. She knew, without knowing how she knew, that time was suspended around them. Nothing would happen until the goddess was ready. 

"A fine boy." Inanna rocked him gently, unmindful of the baby drool on her gold collar. "He will have power one day, if he lives long enough. But you have power now, and the skill to use it. I could use a mortal like you in my service. Perhaps I will save you instead."

"No." Lily tried to take a step forward, but an invisible hand seemed to hold her pinned. This wasn't right, this wasn't how the spell was supposed to work... "Please. That's not why I called you here."

"You called me to ask for my judgment." Inanna's eyes were dark and pitiless. "Will you quibble with it now? I am entitled to take a life and to save a life. Is it not a fine bargain, to save yourself in exchange for the child? You're young. You will have other sons."

"No!" Lily shrieked, struggling frantically against the force that held her in place. Every warning Giles had ever given about dealing with gods and demons was coming back to her all at once. _They don't think the way we do, they don't feel what we feel, the things that matter to us are nothing to them..._ "Please. Not Harry. Take me. Kill me instead. Not Harry, please..."

"I've made my decision." Inanna kissed Harry on the forehead, placed him back in the cot and vanished from the room in a shimmer of pale blue light. Lily suddenly found that she could move again. She lunged forward, screaming for the goddess to come back, to have mercy, to take anything she wanted but not Harry, please, she would do anything...

The door flew off its hinges and crashed to the floor. Voldemort strode into the room, cloaked and hooded like a Dementor. Harry began to cry again, even louder than before, as if he knew what was coming. Voldemort's eyes glowed blood red within the hood's black shadow. The sleeve of his robe slid back to reveal a scaled gray hand as he raised his wand.

Lily stepped in front of the cot to block his line of sight. A meaningless gesture, but it was all she had left. James, at least, had died fighting. She couldn't even manage that.

"Step aside," Voldemort hissed.

Lily shook her head and reached behind her to curl her hands around the corners of the cot. Now that it was all over, she felt strangely calm, or maybe just numb. She had begged and pleaded with Inanna, but she wasn't going to plead with this obscene thing. 

"Step aside, silly girl. I'm not here to harm you."

Let him hiss and rage at her. Every second he stood there talking was another second Harry lived. Amazing how every breath mattered all of a sudden. 

"Are you deaf, girl, or just stupid? I told you to move." 

She couldn't attack him where he stood. She was too far away. He might have time to throw a curse at Harry before she reached him. But if he came closer, she'd do it. Who needed magic, anyway, she didn't need a wand to scratch his bloody eyes out...

Voldemort flicked his wand. Lily's feet moved of their own accord, carrying her away from the cot in clumsy, shambling steps until she smashed into the wall.

"That's better. I'll teach you obedience yet, girl."

He swung the wand away from her toward Harry, and she could move freely again.

"Avada—" 

She pushed away from the wall and threw herself forward, right at him, right at his wand. If she could only get it away from him, maybe she could— 

"Kedavra!"

A flash of gre--


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16 By Mariner 

**October 31, 1981**  
  


Peter's fireplace was blocked off. Sirius stood with his feet planted in a pub in Ballydesmond and his head stuck in the flames, and tried to push through, but to no avail. Finally, the heat got too stifling and he ducked out of the fireplace back into the pub, brushing stray bits of ash from his hair.

This was his third attempt to reach Peter, forty-five minutes past their prearranged time, and the mild unease Sirius had felt at first was slowly turning to panic. Peter did ward his fireplace, like any other sensible person, whenever he left the house, but he had known Sirius would be calling. Peter was not the world's most punctual person, perhaps, but he should've been home from work over two hours ago.

_They couldn't have found him. They haven't even found me yet._

Barely a week had passed since Sirius had packed up his things, said an awkward goodbye to Remus and flown the bike from London to Schull. That night, sitting alone in his room in a Muggle bed-and-breakfast, he had felt the tiny, subtle shift in his mind as, miles away, Peter, James and Lily performed the Fidelius Charm. Such a small change: one moment he'd known exactly where James and Lily were, and the next… the next moment he still knew, but somehow he just couldn't focus on it. Every time he tried to picture the house in his mind, to recite the address to himself, to imagine traveling there, his thoughts would scatter, and he would find himself suddenly fascinated by the spots on the wallpaper or gripped by the inexplicable desire to solve Arithmancy equations in his head. An unsettling feeling, but Sirius had learned to take comfort in it: it meant that James and Lily and Harry were still hidden, still safe.

Buoyed by that knowledge, Sirius had spent a pleasant week meandering vaguely northwards across County Cork, just another Muggle tourist on a motorbike, stopping in a new place every night. At a prearranged time every day, he would find a wizarding pub (they seemed even more numerous than Muggle ones in Ireland) and use their fireplace to contact Peter. So far, neither one of them had had any trouble to report. Sirius did think he had been followed once or twice, by nondescript, harmless looking motorists in Muggle clothes. He'd evaded them by the simple method of taking the bike off the road and into the clouds. Other than that, no one had bothered him, just like no one had bothered Peter.

So where the hell was Peter now?

Sirius finished brushing himself off, left his empty beer mug at the bar, and walked out of the pub. He climbed onto his bike and sat drumming his fingers on the handlebar, wondering what to do next. He considered getting in touch with Dumbledore and asking him to check up on Peter, but Dumbledore would want to know why, and that was one conversation Sirius really didn't want to have. There was no way to contact James and Lily, and no one else he could trust with the information. Yet going back to London himself carried its own set of risks. 

_I'll go and come straight back. It'll only take a couple of hours._ If he took the bike, there'd be no Apparition signature to trace, and no way for anyone to follow without him noticing. If anything, his sudden change of direction might confuse anyone who happened to be searching for him.

_I can go, or I can sit in that pub and keep worrying._

Once he phrased it like that, the choice was obvious. Sirius put on his helmet, gunned the engine, and took off into the sky.

* * *

The rest of Peter's flat was as empty as the living room. Sirius went from room to room calling Peter's name, but received nothing but silence in response. There was an empty teacup on the kitchen table and a dirty plate in the sink. The bed was made. Peter's comb was on the shelf over the bathroom sink; his shoes were lined up in a neat row in the hallway, with a gap for the pair he must've been wearing when he left. No sign of struggle or hasty departure. By all appearances, Peter had risen in the morning, eaten his breakfast, and gone off to work as usual. 

Except that he should've been back hours ago, and he wasn't.

_It doesn't have to mean anything._ Sirius turned around slowly, peering into every shadow, willing Peter to Apparate out of thin air with some simple, harmless explanation. _He could've been held up at work… or gone for a pint and lost track of time... or... or..._

If Peter was in danger, what would he do? Who would he go to? Not to Sirius himself, obviously. Not Remus; Sirius had told him enough to make sure of that. Dumbledore? The Aurors? If he had gone to the Aurors and one of them was the traitor… But Peter couldn't be in danger, because nobody knew. It was stupid to panic. Any second now, the front door would to open, and Peter would walk in, and they would have a good long laugh about Sirius and his paranoid fantasies.

Sirius stared at the door. It didn't open.

He could go to the apothecary shop where Peter worked. Or check the pubs. Or contact Dumbledore. Pity he couldn't just go and check on James and Lily in Godric's Hol--

In Godric's Hollow. In Godric's Hollow. On the Muggle side of the village. In a little Tudor-style house, half a mile from the nearest neighbors, with a birdbath in the garden and a big elm tree by the front gate...

He shouldn't have been able to recall all those details. Shouldn't have even remembered the name of the village.

_Peter... Oh, God..._

Sirius didn't remember running outside, didn't remember mounting the bike and taking off. He was less than five miles from Godric's Hollow, and a mile above ground, when he remembered that he could've Apparated. By then it made no difference. Sirius leaned low over the handlebar, pushing the bike into a steep descent. From this high up, his helmet's charmed faceplate created a spotlight effect -- a broad, daylit circle on the ground below, with darkness all around. The spotlight skimmed over fields and trees, picking out the thin, spidery lines of local roads, the winding ribbon of the river, the little matchbox houses that made up the village. Sirius increased speed. Wind howled in his ears, mingling with the engine's roar. The houses grew bigger and further apart as he came closer. He could make out the main street now, the war monument in the town square, the church tower...

The spotlight's edge hit a pile of smoking rubble on the far edge of the village. Sirius almost swerved away from it before he realized what it was. He descended in a near-vertical plunge, pulling up at the last moment just enough to make it a landing and not a crash. His fingers ached when he unclenched them from the handlebar. It took forever to get his helmet off. Sirius threw it aside and immediately wished he hadn't. Without it, the darkness closed in, and the smoke stung his eyes. No time to look for it, though. Sirius staggered toward the wreckage, yelling James' name.

Part of one wall still stood, jagged holes gaping where the windows used to be. Everything else had collapsed. The air was thick with dust and smoke. Sirius scrambled through the wreckage, tossing chunks of wood and shards of roofing slate out of his way, not noticing that some of the pieces were still smoldering and that his hands were becoming torn and blistered. They might've got out, he kept telling himself. There was no Dark Mark over the house, James and Lily must've put up a hell of a fight to leave all this mess behind. They didn't have to be dead, they might've got out with Harry...

Someone coughed in the darkness. The rubble shifted with a harsh, grinding noise, and Sirius felt a momentary surge of hope. But the massive black shape that loomed out of the darkness above him couldn't possibly be James. Sirius backed away a step, lost his footing, and keeled over in a dusty heap, grabbing desperately for his wand.

"Who's there?" The black shape lumbered forward a few steps. "Speak up for yerself, or-- hullo, is that Sirius Black?"

"H-Hagrid?" Sirius wobbled to his feet, clutching his wand with a trembling hand. What the hell was the Hogwarts groundskeeper doing in Godric's Hollow? "Lumos."

The glow from his wand illuminated Hagrid's grim, soot-smudged face. He was covered with dust and grime, bits of plaster stuck in his beard. Sirius blinked at him, too stunned to think for a moment.

"Hagrid, what are you doing here?"

"Dumbledore sent me," Hagrid said, and coughed again as a cloud of smoke drifted past him. He was holding one hand against his shoulder, his coat bunched up beneath it in an odd lump. He lurched closer, and Sirius saw the tears on his face, streaking through the grime. "He got wind of the attack somehow. Asked me to look for survivors."

Sirius' throat felt as if something sharp was stuck in it. Just getting enough breath to speak was a struggle. "D-did you find anyone?" He had to ask, even though he knew, just from the look on Hagrid's face, what the answer must be.

"Only the little 'un here." Hagrid moved closer, drawing back a fold of his coat, and Sirius saw that he was cradling a small, blanket-wrapped bundle against his chest. The bundle squirmed and reached out to tug at Hagrid's collar with a tiny pink hand.

"Harry..." Sirius reached out unsteadily to peel back one corner of the blanket. Harry's face was even wetter and dirtier than Hagrid's. He was making little hiccupping noises, the kind he always made when he was too tired to keep crying but not ready to stop yet. There was a smear of blood on his forehead, but he was moving, and breathing, and his eyes were wide open. The sharp pain in Sirius' throat receded just a little. "Harry," he repeated in a voice that didn't sound at all like his own. "Harry. Harry."

"He's all right." Hagrid draped one enormous arm around Sirius' shoulders. "He's safe now, Sirius. It's all right."

Sirius wanted to say that it sure as hell wasn't all right, that it would never be all right, that it was about as all wrong as life could possibly get. But Hagrid's voice was so earnest, and the giant hand patting his back was so gentle, and Harry was staring at him with big, trusting eyes... He tried to get the words out, but they wouldn't come, and the next thing he knew, he was sobbing into a fold of Hagrid's sleeve, while Hagrid patted his back some more and rumbled, "There, there..." into his ear.

It was humiliating, but it helped. After a couple of minutes, Sirius stepped back, sniffed loudly, and was able to say in a reasonably steady voice, "Did you find James and Lily?"

"Back there." Hagrid stepped aside to let Sirius brush past him.

There was a small, clear space towards the back of the house where Hagrid had pushed the rubble aside. He had laid the bodies there, side by side, and apparently made some attempt to clean them up, because there wasn't as much dirt on their faces as there was on everything else. James' glasses were missing. Without them, his face looked naked and unfamiliar, nothing like James at all. Sirius shuddered and lowered his wand, extinguishing the Lumos spell with a flick of his wrist, but even in the dark, he could feel those empty, accusing eyes staring at him.

Behind him, Harry gave another hiccup, followed by a small, tentative yelp. He seemed to be about to get his second wind. Sirius tucked his wand back into his belt, turned around and raised his arms.

"I'll take him, Hagrid."

"'Fraid you can't, Sirius." Hagrid shook his head and took a step back. "Not yet, anyways. Dumbledore's orders."

"I have to take him," Sirius insisted. "I'm supposed to take care of him. I promised James. I gave my word. I have to make sure he's all right."

"He'll be fine," Hagrid said stolidly. "Dumbledore'll make sure he's safe." His face softened a little, and he laid one hand on Sirius' shoulder. Sirius had to lock his knees to keep his legs from buckling. "Look, it don't have to be forever, right? Maybe you can come an' get him later, once everthin's settled. Right now, we just have to keep the boy hidden for a bit, until Dumbledore finds out what happened here."

_But I know what happened..._ Sirius clenched his fists, noticing for the first time that his fingers were sticky with blood. The truth was sinking in now, a cold, crushing weight in his chest. The Death Eaters had never caught up with him, had never even really tried. Yet Peter was missing. Peter had talked. It must've been Peter all along.

Peter the traitor. Little Peter, always overlooked, not above suspicion but below it. And Sirius had handed James and Lily's lives to him, all puffed up with pride at his own cleverness.

_I might as well have killed them myself..._

He could speak up now. Tell Hagrid, tell Dumbledore, set the Aurors on Peter's trail. But it was Sirius' mess, wasn't it? He had to clean it up. Besides, you never could tell with the Aurors; they might actually take the little bastard alive.

Harry stirred restlessly in Hagrid's grip, letting out another, more emphatic yelp. Sirius automatically reached for him, but Hagrid's hand tightened on his shoulder, holding him in place. 

"I told you, Sirius, it's--"

"Dumbleldore's orders, yes, I know. Just let me hold for a minute, all right? He knows me. I'll quiet him down for you."

Hagrid looked down at the increasingly agitated toddler in his arms and shrugged. "I suppose you'd better," he admitted, and bent down. "Here, take him."

"Shh." Sirius cradled Harry against his chest and did his best to think soothing thoughts. "Shh, Harry, it's all right. Don't be afraid. It's me."

"Mmmmph..." Harry wriggled sluggishly, and sniffled into his blanket. "Pafoo..."

"That's right. It's Padfoot. Nothing to be afraid of, see? I've got you."

He stood there and whispered comforting lies until he was reasonably sure Harry wasn't going to start screaming again, then reluctantly handed him back to Hagrid.

"Here; he should be all right now. If he starts to fuss, just hold him like you saw me holding him, and talk to him for a bit. Sing if you can. He likes that."

"Thanks." Hagrid was watching him with a concerned frown. "You going to be all right yerself, Sirius?"

"Yeah. I'll be fine." The lies were coming easier all the time. "Uhm… How are you planning to get out of here?"

Hagrid shrugged. "Muggle train, I s'pose. It's not that far of a walk, I think."

Sirius pondered the likely Muggle reaction to a seven-foot-tall, soot-covered man carrying a baby, and shuddered. "I think you'd better stay out of sight, Hagrid. Take my bike. It'll be faster, too."

Hagrid's frown deepened. "Are yeh sure?"

"Take it. I don't need it anymore, I can Apparate to where I'm going." _And I can't have Peter hear me coming, can I?_

"All right, then. Thanks." Hagrid took a step toward the bike, then stopped and awkwardly patted Sirius' shoulder again. "I'm sorry, Sirius, I really am. I know how close you were to--"

"_Go_, Hagrid!"

"Yes. Well... I'll be going, then." Hagrid walked away, shoulders hunched. Sirius found he couldn't stand to watch him go. He waited just long enough to hear the bike's engine roar to life, then Apparated.

* * *

Now that he knew to look for them, he could see the signs of a hasty departure all over Peter's flat. Peter had always been hopelessly disorganized when it came to packing. Every Hogwarts term would start out with his mother's exhausted owl trudging back and forth for at least a week, delivering all the essentials he'd forgotten to pack. Now he'd gone off with clothes but no shoes, a toothbrush but no comb, a set of old schoolbooks but none of his apothecary supplies. Sirius carried the comb from the bathroom into the kitchen and took a clean bowl from the cupboard.

He ended up having to look up the tracking spell. Fortunately, Peter hadn't packed all his books, either, and the N.E.W.T.-level Defense textbook was still on the shelf. Sirius was surprised at how calm he felt as he read the instructions, worked out the correct sequence of runes on a scrap of parchment, repeated the incantation over and over until he was sure he had the pronunciation right. It was as if he'd splinched himself somehow when he Apparated out of Godric's Hollow, but mentally instead of physically. Part of him had remained behind, weeping in the wreckage, and the rest was here, going through the motions of a Dark ritual, feeling nothing at all. Even when he stood at the kitchen table and sliced a silver knife across his hand, the pain barely registered.

Sirius clenched his fist, letting his blood drip into the bowl for a few seconds, then quickly healed the cut and fetched one of Peter's quills from the desk in the living room. He used the blood to write out the runes on the table, flicked his wand over them and spoke the incantation. Both his hand and his voice were perfectly steady. The runes glowed a deep, garnet red as the spell activated. Sirius picked up Peter's comb, plucked a few mousy-brown hairs from its teeth, and set them alight with a quick Incendio. They gave off a bitter smell as they burned. 

When the ashes fell onto the runes, the glow intensified, slowly coalescing into a shimmering sheet of red light above the table. Shadows appeared, blurry and formless at first, then resolving into buildings, trees, moving people and vehicles. A busy city street, traffic lights flashing, Muggles hurrying back and forth across a junction. And in the middle of it all, Peter Pettigrew in Muggle clothes, dragging his battered old trunk along the pavement behind him. The image didn't last long, flickering out as soon as the last of Peter's hair burned away, but there was time enough for Sirius to recognize the looming iron-and-stone bulk of Victoria station in the background. He paused just long enough to fix the visual reference firmly in his mind before he Disapparated from the kitchen. 

People screamed when he appeared in the middle of the street. Brakes screeched and car horns blared. Sirius didn't care. The calm that had carried him through the spell preparations earlier was gone, shattered by the sight of Peter slinking down the pavement, and the rage and grief were flooding back in a molten wave.

"Peter!" he yelled.

Peter let go of his trunk and spun around. His face was pasty-white and beaded with sweat, his fringe sticking damply to his forehead. For a moment he froze, trembling, eyes bulging in panic, and in that moment, Sirius _knew._ He hadn't been completely certain before. Some small part of him had still hoped that there was some sort of mistake, a misunderstanding, some obvious angle that he was overlooking. That if he just caught up with Peter and made him explain, then somehow it would all make sense and there would be no need to avenge a betrayal. But one look into Peter's eyes was enough to dispel all doubt. Sirius had had infinite opportunities to learn exactly what Peter Pettigrew looked like when he'd been caught doing something wrong.

"S-Sirius." Peter fell back a step. His fingers plucked nervously at his shirtfront, a fidgety habit he always fell into when he was frightened. The gesture was as familiar as the look on Peter's face, and just as suddenly alien. How could it happen, Sirius wondered. How could you know a man for over a decade, know his favorite color, the punch lines to all his jokes, the exact date he lost his virginity -- and still not know him at all?

Sirius' wand was in his hand, though he didn't remember drawing it. He raised it level with Peter's chest and advanced. Frightened Muggles scurried out of his way. Somebody screamed. Sirius imagined he made a frightening sight, wild-eyed and panting, face and hands still smeared with ashes from Godric's Hollow. Peter certainly looked horrified enough. Sirius bared his teeth at him, and he whimpered as he retreated a few more steps.

"Please, Sirius, you don't understand... please d-don't hurt me!"

"Don't worry," Sirius snarled, "you won't feel a thing."

Peter turned and ran, abandoning his trunk. Sirius had no choice but to follow; there were too many people in the way for him to get a clear shot. He sprinted across a road, scrambled over the bonnet of a black cab while the driver shouted obscenities, knocked a pile of newspapers off their crate as he scrambled past a kiosk. Some damned fool actually tried to grab him -- thinking to apprehend a dangerous lunatic, no doubt. Sirius wrestled free and raced around a corner to find Peter standing with his back against a red phone box, one hand flung out in a pleading gesture.

"Lily and James, Sirius, how could you?"

The question, coming from Peter, was so utterly insane that Sirius stumbled to a halt for a moment. And in that moment, the world turned to fire.

A blast of scorching heat lifted Sirius right off the pavement and send him tumbling head over heels. Street and sky jumbled together, then disappeared behind a smothering cloud of dust and smoke. Sirius landed flat on his back on the pavement, the impact violent enough to knock the air from his lungs and leave him too stunned to move for a minute or so. Through the ringing in his ears, he could hear screams and the shrill, hysterical wail of an alarm somewhere nearby. When Sirius finally sat up, his whole body ached with a deep, dull throb, as if every muscle was bruised. He lifted his arms to inspect the damage, and realized for the first time that he was still clutching his wand. Or half his wand, rather -- it had broken off two inches above the carved grip, the remaining piece so thickly coated with dust and ash, he couldn't even see the unicorn hair at the core. 

Sirius shuddered and dropped the broken wand, then forced himself to stand and look around. There was a ten-foot crater in the middle of the street, still billowing black smoke. The walls of the surrounding buildings were scorched, all the windows blown out. A lamppost was bent double, its top nearly touching the ground. A car sat upside-down on the other side of the crater, its tires still spinning uselessly. The phone box Peter had been cowering against had lost its door and most of its roof. Peter himself was nowhere in sight.

Sirius staggered toward the edge of the crater, kicking chunks of broken pavement out of his way. He could see at least four bodies in the rubble, all of them bloody and broken, all of them strangers. The bottom of the crater was filled with oily black water. Something was moving down there, squirming and splashing. Sirius bent down for a closer look and saw a long, thin tail wriggle out of the water for a second before disappearing again. Another, nearly identical tail darted into a hole; a tiny, whiskered face glared with beady eyes from beneath a jagged chunk of cement. Rats. Dozens of them, scurrying away into the shadows. 

_Peter. Wormtail._ Scurrying in the shadows all this time, betraying them all with no one the wiser. James, Lily, Harry, all the dead and injured Muggles in the street... how many lives had he wrecked in a day? In a year? How long had he been doing this? How could none of them have known?

_No one ever suspects Peter._ His own words to James, so idiotically confident, so deadly. How pleased he had been with his own cleverness. _ People underestimate him. We know what he's capable of, but hardly anyone else does._

Sirius felt the laughter bubbling up in his chest, and tried to force it down. He knew it was wrong to laugh. But really, the irony was just too perfect; he couldn't have done it better if he'd scripted it. Use Peter, James. Poor, underestimated little Peter. No one knows him like we do. 

It hurt to laugh, but it hurt more when he tried to stop. Sirius wrapped his arms around himself, pressed his hands against his aching ribs, and laughed until his eyes watered, until his voice cracked, until his sides cramped so that he couldn't stand up straight. He didn't hear the Hit Wizard squad Apparate into the street, didn't realize that the shouting voices were directed at him until rough hands grabbed his shoulders and he found himself standing upright, with a wand pressed against his chest.

"Sirius Black." The blue-robed wizard holding the wand was a stranger, grim-eyed and angry. "You are under arrest." "For what?" Sirius said blankly, but as soon as he got the question out, he knew what the answer must be, and the knowledge triggered another bout of helpless laughter until the wizard in front of him broke off his recitation of charges and backhanded him across the face. The pain and the taste of blood startled Sirius into silence. He stood there, panting and speechless, while another wizard patted him down, searched through his pockets and conjured irons onto his wrists and ankles. _You don't understand,_ he wanted to say, _I didn't do it._ Except that he had done it, just not in the way they thought. James and Lily were gone, and Peter was gone, and when he thought about trying to explain it all, the words stuck in his throat. It would be a long time before he trusted himself to speak again, and by then it made no difference. 


	17. Chapter 17

The End of the Beginning By Mariner 

**Chapter 17**  
  
**November 8, 1981**

The service was already underway by the time Giles walked into the crematorium chapel. The door squeaked faintly as he shut it behind him and a bony, long-necked woman with a high pile of blonde hair half-turned to glare angrily over her shoulder. Giles gave an apologetic smile and took the nearest seat, clutching his hat in his lap. The vicar, who had paused slightly in mid-sentence when Giles had entered, recovered himself and went on.

"...Turn from the wrong that we have thought and said and done,   
and are mindful of all that we have failed to do..."

Giles was startled at how sparsely attended the service was. He had expected to see Dumbledore, but the Headmaster was nowhere in sight. There was Remus, sitting with his head bowed and his shoulders hunched. Next to him, Alastor Moody sat stiff-backed and very still in an ill-fitting black suit. A handful of vaguely familiar people, all looking ill at ease in their Muggle clothes, clustered in the two pews behind them. 

On the other side of the room, conspicuously isolated from the wizard contingent, sat the blonde woman and a large, thick-necked man. The woman's face looked familiar, and after a while Giles placed her as the disapproving bridesmaid in James and Lily's wedding photo. This had to be the sister Remus had mentioned in his letter. Petunia, that was it. Petunia Dursley. She sat at the very edge of the pew in order to keep an eye on a double pushchair she'd parked in the aisle. Giles couldn't see into the pushchair from where he was sitting, but he assumed one of the occupants must be Harry.

"...Heal the memories of hurt and failure.  
Give us the wisdom and grace to use aright  
the time that is left to us here on earth..."

Someone had sent the most lavish flower arrangement Giles had ever seen: a heraldic design wrought from orchids, the colors so vibrant they seemed to glow. It looked so absurdly out of place against the cheap pine coffins, that Giles might've thought it had been misdirected on delivery if he hadn't recognized the design as the Hogwarts crest. The small scarlet and gold wreath beside it looked distinctly outclassed, as did the spray of lilies Giles himself had hastily ordered by phone before leaving Bucharest. Mrs. Dursley, Giles noticed, stared straight ahead most of the time, but every now and then she would shoot a quick, furtive glance at the flowers, as if she expected them to suddenly turn poisonous.

"...And forgive us our trespasses,  
as we forgive those who trespass against us..."

A plaintive whimper drifted from the pushchair, and was promptly drowned out by a second, much louder cry. Petunia Dursley's face went pale. She bent down and scooped a wriggling, blanket-wrapped bundle out of the pushchair. Giles caught a glimpse of pale hair and a chubby, bright-pink arm flailing violently in the air. It was an amazingly _large_ baby. Mrs. Dursley actually required a supporting arm from her husband as she strained to her feet, teetering in ridiculously high heels. She aimed a defiant glare at the motley crowd across the aisle, as if somehow blaming them for her child's outburst.

"He's very sensitive," she announced to no one in particular and marched out of the chapel, her head held high and her back as straight as the weight in her arms allowed. There was a collective sigh of relief as the door swung shut behind her, cutting off the screams. The vicar returned to his rather perfunctory recitation of the 23rd Psalm, but Giles wasn't listening. His attention was focused on the pushchair left abandoned in the aisle. Mrs. Dursley had pushed it sideways as she was leaving the pew, and Giles could see Harry now, clutching an armful of blanket to his chest and making the familiar gulping noises that presaged a crying fit. Giles glanced at Vernon Dursley, but the man continued to stare straight ahead, motionless. Only the back of his neck, which had suffused from pink to maroon, gave any sign that he was at all aware of his nephew's distress. Giles hesitated briefly, then stood, shoved his hat in his pocket, and walked over to sit in the pew behind Dursley. 

Harry blinked up at him with big green eyes that looked tired and lost. _He's too young to understand,_ Giles told himself sternly. _You're projecting_ He rocked the pushchair lightly with his foot and held out his hand for Harry to grasp. That finally attracted Dursley's attention; he turned around with a furious expression on his face. Giles glared back. From the corner of his eye, he could see Remus and Moody half-rising from their seats, clearly prepared to intercede if there was a row.

There was no row. Dursley hunched his shoulders and turned away. Harry, apparently comforted by a familiar presence, fell quiet. Remus and Moody sat back down, and the service continued in relative peace.

"Our days are like the grass;   
we flourish like a flower of the field;  
when the wind goes over it, it is gone  
and its place will know it no more."

There were no hymns and no eulogy. The vicar recited the Nunc Dimittis as he drew a discreet curtain over the niche that held the coffins. The murmur of the closing prayers almost drowned out the soft whirr of the conveyor belt. As everyone rose from their seats, Giles adjusted his tie and forced himself to take a mild, polite tone as he introduced himself to Vernon Dursley.

"I can give you hand with Harry if you like," he offered once the not-so-pleasantries were out of the way. "He knows me, and it would give you a chance to--"

"Stay away from my family, you freak!" Dursley's eyes were bloodshot, and his forehead was beaded with sweat. He came within an inch of running over Giles' feet as he ran from the chapel, thrusting the pushchair ahead of him like a battering ram to clear his way through the milling wizards in the aisle. Giles, left to stand uselessly in the pew, looked down with some bemusement at his charcoal suit, clean new shoes and Balliol tie.

"Freak?" he murmured in puzzlement.

"Guilt by association, I'm afraid." Remus crossed the aisle to stand next to Giles. He looked pale and exhausted, and there was an acid edge to his voice Giles didn't recall ever hearing before. "You came to the funeral, therefore you are a friend of James and Lily's, therefore... welcome to the freak show."

"Oh." Giles looked at the door through which Vernon Dursley had disappeared in such a hurry moments before. "Are we absolutely sure these people are related to Lily?"

"Unfortunately." Remus clasped his hands behind his back and turned his face up into the weak sunshine that filtered through the leaded glass windows. His jaw tensed for a few seconds, etching deep lines at the corners of his mouth, then relaxed again. "Thank you for coming," he said, sounding much more like usual self.

"I'm sorry I was late," Giles said. "I came as soon as I got your owl, but it's difficult to get out of Romania on short notice." He'd had to use all his Watcher connections to get his papers in order, and still ended up handing over all his cash to bribe a stone-faced customs officer at the airport in order to get on his plane.

"At least you're here." Remus' expression turned hard again. "Lily and James deserved better than this. But the Dursleys want nothing to do with the wizarding world, and Dumbledore is going along with their wishes, damned if I know why. Only a few of us were told where to come today."

"I was wondering about that." Giles headed for the exit, Remus quietly falling into step beside him. "I would've expected Dumbledore himself to be here, though."

"He was called away at the last moment. Emergency at the Ministry." Remus smiled a thin, humorless smile. "You'd think there would be fewer emergencies, with the war being over. But it seems there's a new one every five minutes. I think they're trying to make Dumbledore Minister of Magic, and he's trying to wriggle out of it. God knows where it all will end."

They walked outside, buttoning their coats and raising their collars against the chill November wind. Giles put his hat and gloves back on. Remus put his hands in his pockets. They stood on the yellowing patch of grass in front of the building and watched Vernon Dursley bundle his family into an oversized beige Volvo, throwing furtive glances over his shoulder all the while.

"Is anyone... Uhm..." Giles hesitated. "Is there to be a gathering of some sort?"

"Moody's place," Remus said. "I can Apparate you over if you'd like."

"You're not going?" 

Remus huddled a little deeper into his coat. "I'm not in the mood for being in a crowd just now."

Giles looked around. The Dursleys had driven off. The remaining wizards were dispersing, disappearing behind trees and around corners. When the wind died down, Giles could hear them Disapparating. He looked over at Remus, who had begun to shiver in his too-thin coat, but still showed no inclination to move.

"I think I passed a pub a couple of streets away when I was driving here. Would you care to join me? It shouldn't be too crowded at this hour." 

Remus shrugged listlessly. "I suppose I could do with a drink."

The pub was nearly empty. Giles and Remus took a table in the back and ordered two pints and a basket of chips. Neither man attempted conversation at first. Giles' mind was swarming with questions, but Remus looked in no condition to answer them. Remus had left his coat on, despite the fireplace at his back, and his movements when he lifted his glass or reached across the table for the tomato sauce were strangely deliberate, as if he was making a special effort to keep his hands from shaking. Giles tried to remember what phase the moon was in, but it wasn't something he was accustomed to keeping track of.

"Remus," he said finally, "are you going to be all right?"

"Eventually." Remus appeared preoccupied with the pattern of beer rings on the table top. "Things will become easier with time. Or so I'm told. By everyone. About ten times a day. Oh, and James and Lily didn't die in vain, and Peter will be remembered as a hero, and none of them would've wanted me to sit alone in my flat and brood. Everyone is in consensus on that, too. Finally, something the entire Wizarding world can agree on."

"I'm very sorry," Giles said. "Though I suppose everyone's been telling you _that,_ too."

"Another common sentiment," Remus agreed. "But don't feel you have to be original on my account."

Giles' past conversations with Remus had consisted mostly of pleasant chats about academic subjects. He didn't know the man well enough to know how to deal with him in this brittle, embittered mood. So he sipped his beer and did his best to appear concerned and willing to listen, but not nosy or presumptuous. He must have succeeded, because after a while Remus abandoned his perusal of the table and looked up with a small, wry smile.

"I'm sorry, Giles. I didn't mean to take out my temper on you."

"That was hardly a temper tantrum," Giles said, "though you're certainly entitled to one."

"Don't tempt me." Remus lifted his glass and slammed it down again without actually drinking. Some of the beer splattered onto the table. "They sent him to Azkaban, you know. There wasn't even a trial."

"Who?" Giles asked, a moment before he remembered what Azkaban was. "Sirius?" 

It was Sirius who had told him about the wizard prison, during one of the many evenings they'd spent at the Potters' house. Somewhere in the North Sea, he'd said. Inaccessible, Unplottable, and guarded by those Dementor creatures Giles remembered from his one visit to Auror Headquarters. The memory alone was enough to make him shudder. James had said it was even worse for wizards...

"No trial? Is that, uhm… normal for your government?"

"It's not unprecedented," Remus said grimly. "I understand Dumbledore tried to intervene, but even he's in no position to oppose Barty Crouch right now. And the Ministry, apparently, has more important business on its hands than dealing with protecting the legal rights of a traitor and mass murderer."

"But if there was a mistake..." Giles hesitated. "I mean, I've read your letter, and I suppose I have to take your word about the Fidelius spell, but I still can't believe that Sirius--"

"Don't," Remus said harshly.

Giles bit back an automatic apology and lapsed back into his earlier sympathetic silence. Remus bunched up his napkin and busied himself with mopping up the beer he'd spilled. 

"I've been going through James and Lily's things," he said after a while, "and I've found a number of books that belong to you. If you'd like to come back with me from here, you can take them back."

"Oh, good," Giles said. "I was hoping somebody would find those."

They finished their drinks, retrieved Giles' rented car from the crematorium car park, and fought their way through a tangle of northbound traffic to London, where Remus had a tiny two-room flat in a bleak-looking street near Waterloo Station. He must've just moved in -- both rooms were filled with stacked boxes and trunks, and the only furniture was a bed. The walls were shedding flakes of dingy beige paint and the windows looked as if they hadn't been washed since the place was built.

"Sorry about the mess," Remus said. "I had to find a new place on short notice. Here." He conjured a chair and pushed it toward Giles. "Make yourself comfortable while I fetch your things."

He'd lived with Sirius, Giles remembered. Sirius had money. Remus, from the look of things, had a lot of books, some very old luggage and not much else. Had he been evicted from his previous home, or did he leave on his own to escape bad memories? Remus' shuttered expression discouraged questions and expressions of sympathy. Giles smiled politely and sat down.

Remus disappeared into the bedroom and reappeared a couple of minutes later with a large cardboard box in his arms.

"I hope there's nothing missing," he said. "I'm afraid some of the volumes are rather badly damaged. The house was completely wrecked, and then the Aurors stomped over everything like a herd of rampaging Hippogriffs before I could get anything back. But these are all the books from Godric's Hollow that looked as if they might be yours, plus a few from Peter's flat."

"Oh?" Giles frowned. "I don't think I've ever loaned any books to Peter. It was Lily who always wanted to do extra reading."

"Maybe Lily shared with him?" Remus suggested. "He only had three or four, anyway. I found them when I was helping his mother sort out his things."

"Has anyone been helping _you_?" Giles blurted out. Remus gave him a bland, stolid smile.

"I haven't needed any help, Giles."

There was no arguing with a lie that big. And Giles was in no position to object. He had nothing to offer except a shoulder to cry on, and Remus was clearly not interested in that. Giles took the box from him, muttered some generically polite expressions of thanks, and allowed Remus to escort him downstairs to the car.

Back in his room at the Heathrow Sheraton, he opened the box and made a quick examination of the top layer of books. Most were badly singed, their covers cracked or broken, but a few looked salvageable. Giles brushed the dust from a thick volume of Sumerian invocation spells, surprised at how undamaged it looked. When he cradled the book in his hand, it fell open. Giles looked down at the brittle, yellow-edged pages and felt something clench painfully in his chest.

It was the protective invocation he'd discussed with Lily three months before. Giles recognized the summoning runes immediately. And in the center of the diagram, soaked into the parchment, was a single bloody handprint.

James and Lily were dead. Harry, against all reason, was alive. Voldemort was gone. And according to Remus, no one in the Wizarding world had any explanation for what had happened. Giles' own hand shook as he placed it palm down on the page, completely covering the rust-colored print. 

_She did it. She really made it work._

He slammed the book shut, dropped it back into the box and closed the lid. It was all too much to deal with, just then. He would put the books into storage along with everything else he owned, and return to his assignment in Bucharest. There would be time to sort out his library when he got back.

* * *

Eight years later, after twelve different research assignments in six different countries, Giles finally returned to England for long enough to rent a flat and take his belongings out of storage. As he unpacked, he was mildly puzzled to find a handful of Ethan Rayne's nastier demonology grimoires mixed in with his own books. But he and Ethan had traded a lot of books over the years, and it wasn't too surprising if a few went astray here and there. Giles put the volumes aside with a mental note to make sure that Ethan never got his hands on them again, and gave it no further thought.


	18. Epilogue

The End of the Beginning By Mariner 

**Epilogue**  
  
**Venice, April 8, 1993**  
  


"Giles?"

"Remus! Good Lord. It's been--"

"Twelve years. Here, let's get out of the way."

The two men shuffled sideways to remove themselves from the stream of tourists making their chattering way into St. Mark's. Finding a sheltered spot under some scaffolding, they lowered their umbrellas and shook hands.

"It's good to see you," Giles said. "You look... well."

Remus smiled. "You were going to say 'old,' weren't you?" 

"Not at all," Giles said virtuously. It was mostly true. Remus did look older than he should've, even taking twelve years' wear and tear into account, but he also looked relaxed and self-assured, which was a great improvement over Giles' last memory of him. "I was going to say, 'do you have time for a cup of coffee?'"

"I believe I can fit it into my schedule." Remus peered out into the rain. "If we walk very fast, we can probably make it to that café with the green awning before we're completely drowned."

They tilted their umbrellas into the wind and ran for it, splashing through puddles and startling a flock of pigeons into shrieking flight. It was too early in the day for the cafes to be crowded, even in Piazza San Marco, and they were able to claim a table and order their coffees without too much fuss.

"So," said Remus, "what are you doing in Venice?"

"Having a holiday. I was in Verona on business, and have a few days free before I have to move on. And you?"

Remus' grin instantly wiped out the effects of the grey hair and the shabby clothes. "Clearing out a Grindylow infestation in the Grand Canal."

Giles barely avoided sputtering his espresso all over the tablecloth. "You're joking."

"I'm perfectly serious. It seems some merpeople brought them in to protest the pollution. They've been overturning gondolas and trying to drown the Muggles. The Doge was very anxious to have them removed before tourist season _really_ got started."

"Venice doesn't have a Doge, Remus."

"Wizarding Venice does."

Giles picked up his cup and stared at it thoughtfully. "Maybe I should exchange this for a grappa. Tell me you're joking."

Remus sipped his latte and looked smug.

Giles sighed. "Never mind, I'll just pretend to be blasé about it. Is that what you're doing for a living, then? Clearing out magical infestations?"

"Among other things." Remus shrugged. "I'm sort of a... freelance troubleshooter, I suppose. Dumbledore refers people to me when he can."

"Dumbledore's still around, then?" Giles was glad. He had delayed asking, remembering how old the Headmaster had been. He and Remus already had far too many dead acquaintances between them. "How is he?"

"Same as ever. Still Headmaster at Hogwarts. Harry's there now, you know. In his second year."

"Yes, of course he would be." Giles smiled, remembering the green-eyed toddler flinging mashed carrots at his father. He hoped those atrocious relatives he remembered from the Potters' funeral turned out to be nicer than they looked. "How has he been?"

Remus' relaxed manner slipped a little. "I haven't been in touch with him, I'm afraid. The Dursleys want nothing to do with wizards, and I've been traveling so much... You know how it is."

"Of course," Giles said, though he thought it a little odd that Remus had gone all these years without seeing James' son. 

"Dumbledore says he's a brilliant Quidditch player," Remus continued, "and a decent student. Not quite living up to his academic potential, perhaps."

"Twelve-year-old boys who are brilliant at a sport," Giles said, "seldom live up to their academic potential."

Remus smiled. "You're probably right. Though James did, but that was one of his more annoying qualities."

"Too perfect?"

"And much too aware of it." Remus broke a biscotti in two and dipped one piece into his latte. "That's not a problem in Harry's case. Or so I'm told."

"It sounds," Giles said, "as if you want to see him. Could you visit him at Hogwarts, if the Dursleys are such an obstacle?"

Remus shifted slightly in his chair. "I'm not sure I'm ready to go back to Hogwarts. I've actually had a standing offer to teach there, the last couple of years, but I haven't taken it. Too many... associations." He smiled wryly. "Besides, Dumbledore wants me to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, and everybody knows that job is jinxed."

"Jinxed?"

"That's the rumor. Though personally, I think Dumbledore's doing it on purpose. Hiring increasingly hopeless candidates every year until I take the job out of sheer disgust."

"I think you'd make an excellent teacher," Giles told him.

Remus stared into his cup. "I want to do it," he said. "Just... not yet."

"I understand." Giles nodded. "So where have you been troubleshooting besides Venice?"

It was not the most elegant change of subject, but Remus seemed grateful for it, and they spent a few pleasant minutes exchanging travel stories. Remus had lived an adventurous life, if not a lucrative one, and had worked everywhere from Tasmania to Iceland. Giles started to believe his excuse about being too busy traveling to keep in touch with Harry Potter.

"What about you?" Remus asked after a while. "Now that I think of it, even when you were teaching us all those years ago, none of us ever knew what you did in your Muggle life."

"I'm a historian," Giles said. "I work for a private institution, doing research."

"In places like Bucharest and Verona? Nice work if you can get it."

"Oslo and Kavieng are just as interesting as Bucharest and Verona."

"Yes, but there were things trying to _kill_ me in Oslo and Kavieng."

"I suppose that would be a professional drawback," Giles allowed.

"It's a nuisance," Remus said, but he sounded mildly amused by it all. "What were you researching in Verona? Anything magical and interesting?"

"Sort of." Giles hesitated. "I've been tracking a... a lost artifact." There, that was not precisely a lie, assuming one could refer to an unknown adolescent girl as an artifact. But he had neither the license nor the desire to explain the convoluted history of Watchers and Slayers to Remus Lupin, especially since the explanation would have to end with the admission that they'd lost one of the potential Slayers.

Remus, predictably, instantly looked curious. "Did you find it?"

"No," Giles said regretfully, "it was a false trail. But I have a few more leads to follow. I think the artifact might be in Lapland. Or Southern California. But I'm fairly certain it's Lapland."

"Looks as if you'll be keeping busy, then." Remus raised his cup. "Here's hoping you find what you're looking for."

Giles lifted his own cup and clinked it lightly against Remus'. "Here's hoping we both do."

Outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle and the pigeons were coming back.


End file.
